Celestial Requiem
by Raven Dragonclaw
Summary: Harry, much more cynical and worn from 5th year, wants to be heard without discrimination. He wants to learn how to deal with Voldemort on his own, being the best that he can be without conforming society's mold for him. Enter the writer, Harrison Evans
1. Prelude of Mercury

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Disclaimer: I only own the plot, the concept, any places and original characters you don't recognize, the aliases, and any articles/pieces of writing that the characters 'authored' in the course of this story.

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**Celestial Requiem**

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Chapter One: Prelude of Mercury 

_And thus it came to me, an epiphany. So magnificent, so terrible in its greatness, that I now wonder if I had been blind not to see it before me this entire time! I look back on my actions and laugh. It took me so long to realize that, in reality, I was merely a pawn in a well-played game. Well, that is going to change. Soon, I will be the one watching the game – controlling it. Mercury was blessed with the gift of intellect and speed. I have both, that I know. It is just that it is about time I put the gifts of Mercury that I possess to good use…_

* * *

The ceiling was certainly an interesting object of thought, wasn't it?

No. He couldn't deceive himself into trying.

He would never have thought he would have the pleasure of seeing paint dry. Yet here he was. And he had to admit that it was as dull as the old expression said it was.

The behavior of the Dursleys never ceased to amaze him. They had repainted the entire house – per Aunt Petunia's orders – then gone out to wait for the paint to dry. They left him, their nephew Harry Potter, behind. Never mind the fumes. He's a freak. Let him get brain damage. It wasn't as if he didn't have any already. For he couldn't leave the house or else the other freaks would come anyway. They weren't doing anything wrong. And no one said anything about _them_ leaving, did they?

Yes. Typical Dursley behavior would never cease to amaze Harry Potter. They were more civil to him than they had been before. Well, as civil as they could get. Vernon and Dudley had barely said a word to him the entire summer, other than "did you send the ruddy letter?" or to ask for him to pass some sort of food at dinner towards them. Petunia only mentioned directions to do his chores, gave him a few snacks, and asked only a few times if he was feeling alright. Of course, he answered that he was fine. She didn't look as if she believed him, but she shrugged and looked to come to the conclusion that she really shouldn't care.

The sixteen year old scowled as he sat on a chair by a completely open window, attempting to breath in air that fresh, not full of paint fumes. It wasn't as if his room was made any different by the new shade of white that coated the walls, glistening slightly in the dim light of the sunset. The room was clean, painfully so. He really had nothing better to do. The rolls of parchments and the pile of books that were lying neatly on top of his rickety desk signified that he had finished his homework. Truthfully, he had gone beyond what he was required to do. Boredom could be an effective motivator for study: there wasn't much to do.

The dark-haired teen with the apathetic green eyes had not gone far from number 4 Privet Drive since he had arrived at the doorstep from King's Cross. Not that he didn't want to. Far from it, in fact. The truth of the matter was that he wanted to be alone, to think. And unfortunately for him, 4 Privet Drive was the only place that offered this small blessing. He had no desire to be followed around or be asked if he was doing all right, or be drawn into some inane conversation. What he wanted was a bit of peace. And his room in this hated excuse for a home was all that gave it. The irony of it all.

Hedwig was out, delivering the letter to the Order. Every single letter he had received back consisted completely questions on his health and well-being, they'd come to get him soon, and that Sirius' death was not his fault. He, according to them, needed to move on. 'It was Sirius would want, they claimed, and it isn't your fault. Accept it.' He would have loved to say it was a repeat of how they treated him after fourth year, but they hadn't even bothered to contact him at that time, just leaving him alone to stew and fume. Oh, he did accept it, alright. It was _his _fault and he had no problem taking full responsibility for it. If he had done things differently, without a doubt there would not be so much of a mess. It was because of him that Voldemort managed to manipulate him, that he led his friends into a veritable death trap, a death trap that closed and caught his godfather, the closest thing to a parental figure he had in his sorry life.

The wizarding world was now up in arms since the announcement that Voldemort had returned was confirmed by that ever-pathetic excuse for a government, the Ministry of Magic, under the leadership of the ever-idiotic Cornelius Fudge. Accounts of terror and loss were featured almost everyday in the Daily Prophet, usually side by side with articles that proclaimed support of the ministry and what a 'fantastic job' they were doing to contain the threat. When he saw this for himself with his own eyes, he had to laugh.

What really got him though was how the media completely turned around their descriptions and epithets for him. For nearly an entire year, he was 'disturbed and dangerous' as well as a 'delusional, attention-seeking delinquent'. Then, once he was proven right, he was seen as a lone voice against dissenters, trying to inform the public of what was a serious concern. Yes, in their eyes, he was a hero again.

Yes, he admitted that he had changed. Now he was at a more modest height of five foot, seven and a half. He had finally hit his growth spurt fully and was around the same height as his peers. His black hair was still as messy and untamed as ever. Vivid green eyes, so much like the color of the curse that gave him his famous scar, were contemplative and thoughtful, the loss of innocence within those emerald depths evident in their coolness. Though, he still held a thin and scrawny frame, what muscles he did have weren't bulky or large. He wasn't too upset over this, since it would be advantageous to his Seeker position of the Quidditch team. _If I ever play again, _was a thought that came unbidden to his mind. He could only wish the worst for one Dolores Umbridge in her life.

But he also had to admit that he had also changed in other ways. He was no longer a child, if he ever was one to begin with. Certainly he had experienced trauma before. But the death of Sirius had hit home directly. The emptiness he felt was nearly all consuming in its black oblivion. He, however, was determined not to be dragged down by it, by the taunts that came daily from the foe that invaded his mind nightly. Sure, he should tell the Order of the Phoenix, but he felt no need to. Voldemort had gotten no information from his mind due to the practice Harry had put into strengthening his mind (on his own, since Severus Snape would never and never could be a good teacher to begin with). He had gained a bit of access into the monstrosity's mind himself, helping himself to the knowledge while keeping his identity separate, fast, and unnoticed.

As a result, he was now quite a bit more knowledgeable as to how the enemy works, as well as in spells and curses. He had played around with the thought of sending the Dark Lord a nice thank-you card, complete with one of his Aunt Petunia's 'lovely' strawberry strudel, but despite the joy that would have brought, it wouldn't pose to well with those incessant people that watched over him.

And besides, he now knew that Voldemort preferred chocolate brownies. With chocolate fudge. Who knew? Also add to the list rippled potato chips. Hold the sour cream and onion dip.

It was at this point that he believed his mental state was honestly and truly deteriorating into insanity.

He knew that he had grown a great deal more…for lack of a better word, Slytherinish…during his imprisonment in this disturbingly Muggle town. But this cynicism and attitude allowed him an improved focus to study and hone his abilities. All those years he had spent not worrying over his future, over what was going on, had cumulated into the demise of two people, one of which was the last hope of having a normal, happy life. And he'd be damned if he was going to let Voldemort get away with that and taking more of his life away. Thus, he was keeping this change.

This would never have happened if people had just listened to him.

But they hadn't. Just because he was the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, meant that he was just a figurehead, a symbol. Never mind what his opinion is, let's just get a picture and autograph! Smile, Harry! Now, let's put in the papers that he is insane or dating so-and-so!

He wanted to be heard and be influential in the way he was supposed to be. To be taken seriously, not like some inexperienced idiotic child, have some complete and total influence himself over his life and fate for once! Destiny was against him. It didn't seem as if that were possible.

As for the moment, the only person he could adequately say was listening to him was one of his best friends, Hermione Granger. Unlike the others, most notably his other friend Ron Weasley, she told him on no accounts that she valued what he wrote, read and responded to it with her own opinions. She treated him as an equal, something he appreciated greatly. She was the one that told him pointblank that he wasn't going to be removed from the Dursleys this summer, after he had raved to her about hints that Ron kept dropping arrogantly in his letters and Remus' half-hearted attempts to change the subjects in his messages. Harry didn't understand Ron's behavior, really, but Hermione seemed to come up with an explanation for it, giving it to him in her last letter.

_ …He seems to have gotten a great deal more arrogant lately, Harry. The battle in the Department of Mysteries seems to have persuaded other members of the Order to train him in dueling and magic. They even got him a waiver from the Ministry, if you can believe it! I think they hope that Ron could serve as a type of bodyguard to you or something. I don't know, but he's doing well. I guess. I've been finding it hard to stay in the same room as him anymore, with him going on how far he's gotten. There was even a time when he mentioned that he was probably better than you are! Honestly…  
_

Ron's letters constantly telling of his progress – practically throwing it in his face – supported Hermione's theory. Most of the time now, he just wrote back vague letters of congratulations and rather mundane, boring content. He had been happy for his friend at the beginning, but now it was getting just plain annoying. Harry knew his friend was probably just reveling in the attention he was getting, seeing that the redhead was nearly always overshadowed by someone, whether they be the reputations of his five older brothers, Hermione's intellect, or Harry's notoriety and infamy. Though if continued on like that, Harry was definitely considering measures.

The OWL results were reported to him just a few days ago. It was the first time only one owl had come to him on his birthday. He was later told that he would be getting his birthday presents later, after receiving his schoolbooks for the next year delivered to him. It looked as if he wasn't even going to venture into Diagon Alley this year.

**Dear Mr. Potter:**

** We congratulate you on your acceptable score on the standardized OWL exams. You have proven yourself to be quite the acceptable student, according to these grades. As you probably don't know (since it is advised that the professors do not mention this), OWL exams grades are based not only on standard points of knowledge, but as well as on a curve. Because of such high grades that you have received as well as the extra credit that you have shown during your Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL, you will be accepted into the Advanced NEWT level classes.**

** Congratulations, Mr. Potter.**

**Sincerely,**

** Jemima Garamond.**

**

  
OWL RESULTS  


**_Name: _Harry Potter  
_School: _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Ministry  
_House: _Gryffindor

**TRANSFIGURATION: O   
**Written: E  
Practical: E  
**CHARMS: O  
**Written: E   
Practical: E/O  
**HERBOLOGY**:** O**  
Written: E  
Practical: E  
**POTIONS: O**  
Written: E   
Practical: E  
**ASTRONOMY: (see first note below)  
**Written: E  
Practical: A  
**HISTORY OF MAGIC: (see second note below)  
**Written: P  
**DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS: (see third note below)  
**Written: O  
Practical: O  
**DIVINIATION: A  
**Written: A  
Practical: P  
**CARE OF MAGICAL CREATURES:** ** O  
**Written: O  
Practical: O

- Students were distracted during middle of exam  
- Student was required to leave exam due to medical reasons (vouched by Professor Dumbledore). Because of overall high grade, Student will be placed in NEWT level class.  
- Student earned extra credit.

NUMBER OF OWLS EARNED: 12

**Next Year's Classes:**

1. _Advanced NEWT Transfiguration  
_2. _Advanced NEWT Charms  
_3. _Advanced NEWT Herbology  
_4. _Advanced NEWT Potions  
_5. _Advanced NEWT Defense Against the Dark Arts  
_6. _Advanced NEWT Care of Magical Creatures  
_7. _Advanced NEWT History of Magic  
_8. _NEWT Divination  
_9. _NEWT Astronomy_

**If the Student wishes to drop any classes he or she feels is unnecessary to their desired career, they should speak with their Head of House.**

Surprised? He certainly was. Though it was a pity that he had absolutely no actual adult figure of his own to tell the news to. Sure, the Weasleys would be happy and gush over the news, but they weren't his _real_ family. It wasn't as if the Dursleys weren't suddenly going to throw a party for him. And Remus was just too…distant, really.

One thing that he was certain of was this: someone must have either threatened Snape to let him into Advanced NEWT Potions. Or got him drunk. Now there was an interesting thought…what was a drunk Snape like? What if he were a "happy" drunk, that let loose once the alcohol was flowing in their systems? That'd be hilarious to see. Severus Snape, drunken party animal.

Either way, he was never heard. And had no way of voicing out his opinion or views without prejudice.

Unbidden, his eyes strayed to the abandoned Daily Prophet lying on the floor. It looked innocent enough, and he had seen the page on the opinion columnists about ten times already (the new editor seemed to be anti-Fudge, judging from the editorial before)…and the little box in the corner…asking for writers…

Next to it on the floor was one of Vernon's Muggle newspapers that he had taken to see the Muggle perspective on it all. Once more, they were asking for writers. He'd take care of that a bit later.

Standing up abruptly, he walked over to his desk and began to hastily write on a fresh piece of parchment that was lying on the side.

It was brilliant. He'd be heard…finally.

* * *

The next day that followed would be revolutionary. Everyone who read the Daily Prophet was simultaneously shocked, but couldn't resist the call of the straightforward words written on the page. The word was quickly spreading about this new writer. The Daily Prophet had flown off the shelves by the mid-day lunch hour, everyone absorbing, discussing, amazed.

The same went for those Muggles that read the London Times. Who was this person? Who wrote this, so simple and thought out, yet deep and far-reaching? Like their wizard counterparts, they too began to debate on the topic this author wrote. Everyone had an opinion on it.

Meanwhile, at 4 Privet Drive, one Harry Potter smirked in victory. Yes, he was finally heard. Everyone was listening, or rather, reading, what he had thought and said. He couldn't deny that it was a heady, but cathartic, feeling. Though he couldn't put his actual name on the piece – knowing that, of course, there would be some sort of prejudice if he had.

But it was on this day, that the world first heard of Harrison Evans.

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This story was originally posted on my YahooGroup!, but due to demand and in honor of the anniversary of EG, I'm starting to post what I have here. Of course, I did have to change the formatting a bit. This is the first chapter, Prelude of Mercury, which introduces Harry and his plan. In later chapters, you'll see exactly _what _Harrison Evans has been writing. It isn't as frequently updated on as the Elemental series, but I will continue it. I hope you like this story, as it is one of my favorite stories to work on.

---Raven Dragonclaw


	2. Venusian Galliard

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Disclaimer: I only own the plot, the concept, any places and original characters you don't recognize, the aliases, and any articles/pieces of writing that the characters 'authored' in the course of this story.

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**Celestial Requiem**

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Chapter Two: Venusian Galliard

_Venus has always intrigued the mind of mankind, ever since they had turned their eyes to the endless heavens above. The morning and the evening star, they called it Earth's celestial sister. They thought it to be beautiful with its yellow and gray clouds, imagining an idyllic paradise hanging in the sky. And so they named it after the goddess of beauty and love. But Venus is a hellhole, burning temperatures and pressure allowing for absolutely no life to take root or water to nourish. Venus, the Greek Aphrodite, the goddess of love, she gave joy. And yet she was also the cause of endless conflict and pain. But if there is anything that Venus has thoroughly taught me well, it is that the right appearance could hide something infinitely dangerous…_

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_(…in the London Times…)  
_**Sordid Society: Prejudice**

Celebrated and famous psychologist Sigmund Freud once said that the greatest motivator of humankind and human behavior is fear.

And it never ceases to amaze me how society embraces this concept, albeit somewhat unconsciously.

Everyday, we pass judgment on someone, even if we don't even know whom he or she is actually like. You know the feeling. You may not even have to be actually seeing the person. Possibly you heard a story from a friend or a rumor that is spreading widely. Maybe even when you see what they have written.

Now, of course, many people will say here that they aren't prejudiced at all. And that is a load of crap. We are naturally born to judge what we like and don't like. It is something that we gain through the experiences in our lives and what we are exposed to. We cannot help it, since it is ingrained in us somewhat instinctively to discriminate. One such case is the classic fire example. When you were a small child, and your guardian told you not to touch the fire, whether it is the flame on the stove or somewhere else, what was the first thing you did? You touched it. And you got burned. What happened?

You learned not to touch fire again. Why? You'd get hurt. And you don't want to get hurt. So? Don't touch the fire.

These experiences – experiences that are essentially traced back to the concept of fear – shape us. No doubt we all have had similar experiences other than the example I used to make this point. I myself happen to be prejudiced against grapefruit. _Greatly_ against grapefruit. And maybe that is because of that silly diet my cousin tried a few years ago that I was also, forcibly, enforced to follow. What have I learned? Eating grapefruit everyday with a bit of cottage cheese and celery isn't a very nourishing meal every single day. Fear of starvation (yes, starvation, for I was young and my portions small) influenced my dislike. Also, that diet didn't work. I have the sneaking suspicion that my cousin was sneaking in food in at the time (like he normally does). I can't speak any ill of that, since I had done the same. And I won't deny that I would have died without those cookies my friend's mother sent me.

But I think we can all agree that those prejudices are otherwise harmless, even essential to the basic knowledge of an individual. If not, then we would probably be wondering why putting our hands in the fire burns all the time and continue to it all the time.

However, it is when prejudice is used to purposely hurt or damage when it is harmful. It has been done over the centuries and millennia of human consciousness. Let's imagine a small child falls down in the typical mind-numbingly normal park and begins to cry, but their mother isn't paying attention. A teenager goes to help the child up, possibly stop its bawling, having only good intentions in mind. But this teenager has a bad reputation in the neighborhood, isn't very well-known outside rumor, whose clothing isn't in very good shape and is seen as more than a little odd. What happens? The child's mother immediately comes into the situation and starts on the teenager, as if they were the cause. Thus, the teenager is left being falsely blamed for something he didn't do. All because he was immediately judged on stories about him and his appearance.

Happened to me on at least three occasions. I never figured out how I was always seen as the troublemaker, when my cousin is off toeing the line of the law. The irony of it all.

It isn't just on a local level either, but it is particularly glaring in the larger perspective of the world, especially in recent times. Prejudice was one of the major elements of the rise of Adolf Hitler of Nazi Germany and his discriminating views killed millions of innocent people, including Jews, gypsies, Slavs, homosexuals, and other groups. Segregation was a large part of the United States culture until it was outlawed in the mid-sixties, those of African descent separated from the whites in education, public transportation, facilities, and more. Apartheid in South Africa supported the whites of that country, 20% of that nation's people. And close to our own British history deals with India, where the untouchables were the lowest of the low and barely allowed into towns. And through out the times, women had been looked down upon as subordinate to men. It took inspirational leaders such as Martin Luther King, Jr., Nelson Mandela, Mahatmas Gandhi, and others to alert us to the way we were inhumanly treating these groups of people. But just because these people and more have alerted us to the problem, doesn't mean that it isn't there. We see it all the time, whether we tolerate it, disapprove of it, are part of it, are victimized from it.

But what motivates this behavior though? Is it some fear of feeling inferior and lowly? Why do we do this? Certainly, we don't want to hurt other people purposely. There must be some element of fear to keep others in a position that we have power over, so we feel more secure. Fear for our safety, does that motivate us to discriminate against others?

I wouldn't know. As you can probably judge, I'm not a psychologist and certainly not Freud.

I hope you walk away with something from this. Also, I apologize in advance to those who revere grapefruit and all grapefruity things as well the grapefruit industry. I have no intention of offending you, but see it from my position if you will. I would think that eating grapefruit for breakfast, lunch, and (yes, _and_) dinner continuously for little over a month gives me some kind of entitlement. Now, I implore you to make your judgment on this intrepid, aspiring, grapefruit-hating writer.

Do your worst.

_---Harrison Evans_

* * *

"So, Vernon, what do you think about that new writer for the Times? Harrison Evans, I believe?"

The large man, his face purpling slightly over the newspaper, glared at the sight of the wiry teenager so calmly and innocently sitting as his table (but Vernon knew better to think that his nephew was innocent, didn't he?) at the table with small, beady eyes, his mustache twitching in annoyance. However, he could not find anything incriminating about him, something Harry had taken great pains to assure. Petunia looked at him in her usual manner, her face contorted into a sour expression of distaste as she sipped her tea, reminding him greatly of Narcissa Malfoy when he had seen her at the Quidditch World Cup…was it really two years ago?

It was quite hard to believe that so much time had passed since the days he could go to a quidditch match with his friend's family and not have to worry about the world and attempts on his life so much.

Dudley had left, presumably to go and get high, Harry hypothesized. One would think that such doting parents as Vernon and Petunia Dursley would notice that their "oh-so-perfect Diddydums" was out killing himself by doing drugs, partying, getting drunk, vandalizing the neighborhood, etc. He found the fact that ole Dudley (or Big D) was vomiting and was particularly testy one morning was a sure sign that he was suffering from hangover, particularly by coming home at five in the morning the few hours prior from a party. 'Rave' was the official term, but to Petunia, he was staying over with friends. How quaint. It was amazing, really. The neighbors (whose opinion was so highly valued in the Dursley household) must believe that the Dursleys were the worst parents in the world. After all, look at their gluttonous pig of a son. And let's not forget their incurably criminal, delinquent nephew!

The dark-haired teenager sipped the orange juice from his glass coolly, fixing his uncle with a composed, almost mocking green gaze. "Well? What did you think? Everyone is, after all, talking about it?" Of which he was personally pleased about. Then again, Vernon Dursley didn't know that Harry Potter and Harrison Evans were the same person. But the muggle's ignorance was valid, of course. No one else knew that fact, in the Muggle or Wizarding world, and he had every intention of keeping it that way.

Ruffled, the older man grunted before turning the pages of the paper. "I don't know where the Times gets these people! Honestly! Who is this person to criticize the way we think here!" his uncle rambled, but then his voice quieted, noting that his nephew was unperturbed by the outburst. "He makes some good points, I suppose. And that cousin of his, whoever he is, sounds like a complete lowlife." Harry snickered into his orange juice, though his uncle and aunt weren't paying attention to him. "But he isn't as _fantastic_ as they're all playing him out to be." A scowl, combined with the comically twitching mustache, completed Harry's amusement. "All that psycho-mumbo jumbo! But he's far to arrogant to judge us," The teenager was on the receiving end of a pointed gaze, "and our livelihood! We have good reason to discriminate! Especially against those…" The word 'freaks' was left unsaid.

Harry Potter smirked as he continued to eat his breakfast, consisting of scrambled eggs and some dry toast. Vernon Dursley disliked Harrison Evans then, did he?

Good.

* * *

Well, it was surprisingly easy.

They called themselves protectors and guardians! Though, of course, he was happy that the person overseeing him at the moment was so incompetent. They thought he was home, doing _something_, not out here in muggle London. All that was required was to put on his invisibility cloak, wait for the person on guard to apparate out (noting the distinctive 'pop'), and leave before the other could arrive. Having Aunt Petunia cover for him was an added bonus. Granted, he now needed to weed the garden, do all of his and Dudley's chores, clean the house, and cook dinner for all this week. But a bargain was a bargain. And chores weren't that bad. It all depended on the weather, really. However, he needed to get this done and get this done now. Hogwarts began next week.

It took a few subway trips to get to the area where the Leaky Cauldron was situated, but the cost wasn't too high. And Merlin knew he could pay for it. The checks for both of his articles arrived at his home the day before (of course, he needed to intercept Vernon to get the payment from the Muggle newspapers), leaving him with quite a pretty penny. Add that to the money he was paid before for his previous articles and he was doing pretty well for himself. And, judging from their practically pleading letters for him to keep writing, it seemed as if they were eager to keep him on their teams. He had already began writing to other papers, as well as on some Internet sites when he managed to sneak off to the public library (for no freak could ever _breathe _on Dudley's computer!). He had even received some offers himself. Apparently, everyone wanted to hear what Harrison Evans had to say. Thus, he was in demand. Harry did have to admit that it was fun watching the news programs and the late show hosts talk about what he wrote. Interesting…and satisfying. Thinking back on it all, he never really considered supplementing his account at Gringotts. Spending it, definitely, and a few times he had remembered to save. But adding to what was left to him? Nope. Which was, now that he had thought of it, rather juvenile. He couldn't live on that inheritance forever. It wasn't as if he had a Sorcerer's Stone to give him gold whenever he wanted. It was about time that he started to think like an adult, not some magic-struck child or bemused teen. He had responsibilities that he had been avoiding (or others had been keeping from him) and he needed to take charge of them.

Diagon Alley, thankfully, was more or less empty, the stores just starting to open and the few people scurrying about more concerned with their duties than with the boy walking down the street. He was taking a risk and he knew that, quite well actually. But some risks had to be taken. Harry had business to take care of and he'd like to see someone stop him.

As he walked into the snowy marble building that was Gringotts, Harry went up to the most important looking goblin in the building – at least what looked like the most important looking goblin. The creatures were already setting up their booths and calibrating their scales, papers filing magically behind them. The goblin gazed up at him, a keen intelligence surveying him from that swarthy brown face, sizing him up. He for a moment felt cowed, but shook himself. The best way to get what you want in this case was to be confident, collected, cool, and courteous. The four "C" alliteration. Especially since he was in, essentially, goblin territory. An unruffled expression on his face, he asked smoothly, "I would like set up an account, please, as well as find a suitable accountant."

Smirking almost conspiratorially, he nodded for Harry to follow him, leading him towards a set of various doors to the right. Inside was a rather lavish room, largely in earth tones of brown and green, the walls covered in tens of hundreds of leather bound books. Regaining his composure, he seated himself in the green leather chair before the mahogany desk, as directed. With a snap of its fingers, the desk was cleaned of the papers littering its surface, making a neat pile on the ground that had to be as tall as Harry himself. The young wizard raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment as the goblin left the room snickering. It took a moment before a middle-aged man, his hair iron gray and beginning to thin, walked in wearing official looking black robes. The man, short with an air of cleverness about him, blinked for a moment before seating himself behind the desk, in the process placing a monocle over a shrewd brown eye. "I certainly did not expect to see you at my establishment, Mr. Potter," he remarked. "Particularly unaccompanied by that endless swarm of protection that seems to swallow you whole."

Harry shrugged. "One tends to want to be alone at times. And considering my cursed celebrity, _particularly_ myself," he returned. "I will assure you though, that I can protect myself and enjoying the freedom that I have right now."

"Understandable and eloquently put," the man replied. "But it isn't everyday that a person of your statue happens to approach me of all people for your…request. Or rather, my goblin associates. They rarely ever send anyone to me. Usually an appointment set up at least a week in advance is the typical instance when dealing with myself."

"Then I hope my impromptu arrival will suffice," Harry said back. "Either that or you could direct me to another who is free at the moment. I am under the impression that you, much like myself, doesn't want to waste time."

"There is no need, Mr. Potter," he waved off, looking more amused than ever. "It just happens to be the one moment of free time that I can spare. Who knew that this would happen? I happen to be Polonius Keyes, head accountant of the London branch of Gringotts International Bank."

"And, as we have already established, I'm Harry Potter."

"No titles?" Keyes joked.

Harry smiled back. "Of course not. I'm just a regular person after all," Harry said, sarcasm dripping with every word.

Keyes chuckled in appreciation. "Well, I see it will be interesting dealing with you of all people, Mr. Potter. Most of my clientele are stuck-up snobs with no appreciation for some good banter." The older man eased back in his large chair, looking much like a satisfied Cheshire cat. "If Freightsmog is to be relied on – which he isn't, but don't tell him I told you that – you wish to set up a new account as well as hire an accountant. Is this correct?" Harry could tell from the way Keyes now held himself that the accountant was all business now.

"Well, I guess there is a time for everything," Harry said easily. "Yes, that is what I came here for."

"Why, may I ask? I was under the impression that everything is in order with your vault and that you still have quite a substantial sum left. And Albus Dumbledore has handled most of your affairs rather well, I believe."

"I am well aware of that." It was Harry's turn to lose the candor now. "But I think that now that I'm sixteen I can take my own responsibilities. It does belong to me after all. And I don't want people taking what they want from it whenever they feel like it." This was one of the main things that made him angry over the summer. The letter had said that money had been taken out for his books and other school necessities. While though it was nice of them, he disliked that they were intruding on what was, in actuality, his property and funds. "As for the new account, I have…made a business venture. Since I will be at school for most of the year, I'd like someone to keep an eye on the accounts for me."

Keyes nodded seriously, though Harry could sense a feeling of incredulity coming from the man. "Before we make any kind of deal or arrangement, I would like to know what this 'business venture' of yours is. Care to elaborate?"

Sighing, Harry thought through his options quickly. Would Keyes tell the Order why he had closed off the Potter account to them, as well as tell them that he had opened a new one? Would he let out that he was the writer going under the alias of 'Harrison Evans'? No. Keyes didn't seem like the type. And if Keyes was as high up as he claimed, then being indiscreet was a definite impossibility. It would make the entire arrangement a lot easier now that he considered it. However, he would still require something to make sure that his secret stayed safe. Bill Weasley worked here at Gringotts, so it would be wise to tread cautiously. "Do I have your word," Harry began, "that this is completely confidential and discreet?"

"Of course." The middle-aged accountant seemed even more interested than ever. "It won't leave this office. If I approve of this, I personally will handle your affairs. It's why I'm so popular."

"Good," the teen agreed. "I've been writing several articles for some of the newspapers – Muggle and Wizard. I just began just a few days ago." Keyes raised a suspicious eyebrow, a spidery hand adjusting his monocle. "However, I've been going under an alias. I would prefer to keep it that way." His response was an understanding nod. "I would like you to set up and handle the funds that I use and receive under this new account, as well as the assets that I already have in the Potter vault."

A pleased smirk passed on Keyes' face. "I see. Well, this is most interesting. You certainly have me intrigued." Keyes stood up from his seat and reached over to shake Harry's hand. "You have a deal, Mr. Potter. I assume that you want the new account to also take in money from your Muggle earnings? We do offer that option here."

"But of course," grinned the teenager, taking the offered hand. "I have the feeling you won't disappoint me, Mr. Keyes."

"Rest assured that I won't. I've got to be something if I can keep the both the Malfoy and the Black accounts in line," Keyes remarked laughing. The mention of the Black family did give Harry a pang of pain, but he tried his best to ignore it. Sirius died nobly and was a great person, even if his family much to be desired. "If I may ask, what is this alias of yours?"

Harry smiled indulgently. "Harrison Evans."

* * *

At the same moment at 12 Grimmauld Place, a girl tapped the feather end of her quill against her face, as if the action would inspire the words to write, her brown eyes contemplative. The parchment beneath her fingers was blank, waiting to be written on. The girl could be described as pretty, even if her hair was slightly bushy. She had that air of someone with scholarly dignity. Though, to tell the truth, this complemented the bombastic nature of her red-haired friend Ron as well as the quiet solemnity that Harry seemed to often exude. This girl was, of course, Hermione Granger.

She was quite the contrast to the rest of the assembly sitting at the table. For one thing, she was actually quiet. A mixture of adults and children, the entire room was filled with the noise of chatter and conversation. Next to her, Ron was telling his younger sister Ginny of the various things he had learned. Ginny, to her credit, did not seem to be listening and kept trying to draw in the round-faced Neville Longbottom into the talk. Brought by Dumbledore because he was a possible target, Neville was trying hard to adjust. But it was difficult for him, seeing how Ron's attitude was…and the fact that his most feared professor was there often. There was also the fact that the portrait of Mrs. Black had taken a distinct dislike to him. Hermione tried her best to make him feel comfortable.

But at the moment, neither Ron's loud comments nor the rest of the Order's rambling was important at the moment. Her attention returned to the letter that had started this slight dilemma for her. The one she had received from Harry, that had no idea how to reply to.   
  
_Hey Hermione._

_ How is everything at Order HQ? Yes, I'm mentioning it straight out. The entire summer's gone by and Hedwig hasn't been harmed on any flights now. Besides, this is the last letter you're getting before we see each other again on the train. Why bother then?_

_ I hope Ron isn't getting you down or anything. Judging from your (and his) letters, I think we're going to have a bit (okay, a lot) of trouble convincing our dear friend to get himself back to sensibility. I can imagine that Malfoy will fit in this somehow. But let's not dwell on that. How is everyone? I suppose you're doing well? You also got 12 OWLs, I see. Now I know for certain. That extra credit really did help and someone actually got Snape drunk enough to give me an O. How else could I equal you? If you happened to be nearby when Snape was drunk, I hope you have some good pictures. I really do need a good laugh._

_ Everything at the Dursleys is same ole, same ole. Nothing knew really. Do chores, mope, act like a worthless derelict, and be more or less useless, yes, this is what the great Harry Potter does on his summer vacation (according to the ever honored opinion of Petunia Evans-Dursley). Thankfully, the lot of them have been more tolerable. Probably due to the fact that there is a wizard outside the house at all times._

_ Now, I'm going to tell you something that I haven't told anyone else so far (including the Order). I intend to keep it that way. I trust you, and I hope that you can keep it quiet. Tell no one! Okay?_

_ I assume you've heard of that new writer, Harrison Evans? Yeah…you see, I'm him. I know, I know, I probably shouldn't be doing this. But I feel that I need to. Do you know how wonderful it is, to be listened to without the previous notions and ideas about who I am? If I wrote as Harry Potter, not only would I be beset with the Order, but also people wouldn't be actually paying attention to what I'm trying to get across. They'd only see it as the Boy-Who-Lived wrote something. End of story. But in this way, it isn't the end. Furthermore, I'm famous (I guess you can apply the term loosely here) on my own merit, not for something I barely remember. I'm loving it._

_ I only told you because…well, you are my best friend. Please don't tell the Order, I'd like to continue with this. Well…tell me what you think. I do value your opinion after all._

_Maybe you should think of getting into this business as well. Merlin knows you'd probably do as well as I'm doing right now. If not better._

_Waiting for your reply, your friend,_

_ Harry  
  
_

How _was_ she supposed to respond to **that**?! Yes, her friend was the up-and-coming writer Harrison Evans, who was quickly becoming a household name! Add to that, he was the famous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the savior of the wizarding world, and number one on the Dark Lord Voldemort's hit list. Granted, she was proud of him. Instead of making some giant show of himself, flaunting his title and status, he was going out on his own – rather intelligently, she had to add. She had read what he had written before she had found this out and had to agree wholeheartedly. Laughed a few times as well. But he was in danger, nevertheless. And what about the Order? Should she tell them or not? Do think of it, should she tell Ron?

No, she decided. She would be betraying Harry's trust if she did. The Order probably wouldn't approve of what Harry was doing, and some of the Order members didn't like Harrison Evans. Ron, though not officially, didn't support Harrison Evans as well. Certainly, Ron had agreed on some points. But the article that came out two days ago on the conflict between light and dark magic didn't agree with him. She knew Ron completely and totally devoted to the 'light'. Thus, Harry's words on how more cunning and thought should go into the plans instead of full-blown assaults did rub against him slightly. But she had always known that when it came down to it, Harry's views and opinions would always be different and separate from Ron's in someway or the other. It was only now that Harry was speaking out through the alias of Harrison Evans that she truly noticed it so clearly.

Well, she might as well respond truthfully. She was complimented by the trust that Harry evidently had in her. Definitely. But she wasn't going to use that as an excuse for not being honest.

As she composed her reply, her ears pricked at the sound of Remus Lupin's tired voice. Which was understandable. He had just returned from a remote part of Scotland, the full moon just the night before. Indeed, his eyes were shadowed and he was pale and fatigued. The curse that befell werewolves was terrible in her opinion. But he was doing a valiant effort to be there and contribute. Even with the death of his last best friend, the one who he had once believed to be a murder (albeit everyone did), that hung over him. However, the only person there to talk to was the ever-irritable Severus Snape, Potions Master and professor of Hogwarts. The greasy-haired man's face was concealed behind the pages of the day's Daily Prophet apparently absorbed. She listened to them only slightly; only when she was finishing her letter did it become interesting.

"…So," Remus tried again. "What are you reading?"

"I thought werewolves were supposed to have heightened senses."

The werewolf sighed in exasperation. "Not what I meant. I know you're reading the Daily Prophet, Severus."

"If you must _know, _Lupin," Snape replied testily, "Harrison Evans. There haven't been any good writers anymore since the end of the last war, and even then those were as mediocre as a _Gryffindor's_ potions essay. Thank Merlin Evans has shown up. 'Bout time we have someone with some sense."

"You mean a writer that seems to be a Slytherin."

"Same thing, Lupin. Same thing. Wish I could remember if I had taught Evans, though, if he even went to Hogwarts. Probably brilliant."

Smiling to herself, Hermione finished her letter.

_ …If you want my advice Harry, then go for it. I know, it doesn't sound like I normally would, but I think you're doing a great thing. I suppose you're going to try to convince me to join you in this scheme of yours?_

_ It does sound intriguing; I'll give you that. We'll discuss it more when we meet up later next week, I suppose._

_ See you on the train then and keep safe!_

_Love,  
Hermione._

_P.S. By the way, do you know that you have Snape as a fan?_

Oh, she would love to see Harry's face when he saw that.

* * *

He kept the hood of his black cloak up, not wanting to be recognized. It wouldn't do after all to be skulking around Knockturn Alley. Especially if you were number one on Voldemort's personal "Millions of People I'd Happily and Love to Kill" list. The thought made him chuckle slightly. That sounded like one of those silly lists put out those magazines, like "Sexiest Celebrities" or "100 Most Eligible Bachelors" and so on. Subscribe to _Gobbling Death,_ the most widely read magazine for the psychotic and murderous! Discuss torture techniques and the best way to keep evil smiles pearly white!

Now that he thought over his musings, the thought of those lists (not the ones featured in the yet to be published _Gobbling Death_, the other ones) made him cringe in apprehensive horror. What if _he_ ended up on that list? He had enough to deal with and women throwing themselves at him for his looks and money were bound not to help the situation at all. The very idea brought the image of a panicked image of himself (that looked oddly anime-ish [rakish and freaky black hair, oversized green eyes, and the rest] like the shows Dudley always watched) fleeing from a mob of screaming, hormonal girls, several of whom wore his face on tacky looking t-shirts. Sure, he was safe now. But what would happen when he turned eighteen (he tried to avoid the pressing thought of 'if I live to be eighteen'? Find some place and lock himself up? He was both Harry Potter and Harrison Evans. Basically, in short, and furthermore, he was screwed either way. He'd probably drive himself insane if he locked himself up at any rate. And besides, the whole matter with Cho Chang last year made him realize that girls were extremely difficult to understand and most were not as understanding as Hermione, Ginny, or Luna were. Granted, Hermione and Ginny knew him well and Luna…was just Luna.

On his list of priorities, he mentally added **"Somehow make it through teen years, particularly when dealing with the opposite sex or Voldemort."** Well, Voldemort would be eventually taken care of at the end of this, one way or the other. The other…he was going to have an in-depth talk with Hermione. Will it confuse him and will most likely end up with him being more confused than he already was? Probably. But he was making an attempt!

Shaking himself out of these…random thoughts…Harry continued down the notorious street. In truth, he was looking for one particular store that he had seen on one of the rare and absolutely lucky attempts he had on breaching Voldemort's mind. Not that he was going to try that any time soon again. The last time knocked him out for half a day, though he was certain that Voldemort didn't get through his own mind either. The memory of his past mistakes and Sirius motivated him enough to keep that terror at bay. Just barely, to put it plainly. But it wasn't as if Snape was a fantastic teacher anyway.

Pausing at the end of the avenue, where the amount of dark magic centered stores had diminished slightly; he looked up at the store. Like many of the other shops, it was old and dilapidated, the paint of the sign faded and peeling. But Harry could make out the name, happy that he had found it, walked in. Into the store that was so charmingly called **Hell**.

The shelves of the establishment was stocked heavily with various dark books, dust thick upon the shelves. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several sharp swords hanging on the walls, as well as other weaponry. Still watching his surroundings carefully, Harry made his way to the counter. There was never a time when you needed to be prepared for anything than in a place like this. But if the brief smidges he had gotten from Voldemort's memory of the place, his alignment to what side didn't matter, but rather his loyalty to the store itself. Ironic. Sharply ringing the bell on the counter, he waited, curious as to why a crystal ball covered in dried blood was now glowing a vivid green.

Just a minute later, a tall woman (she looked to be at least six feet) that appeared to be in her early forties appeared from the back room, trying to pin her hair back. Clothed in a tattered black robe, she was covered from head to toe in dust, which was taking a toll on her judging from the coughs. When she stopped wheezing, the towering woman looked down at him, one eye a vivid blue and the other a demure brown. Her nose was long for her face, her mouth a thin line of stern seriousness. Kicking himself, mentally obviously, he tried to not be intimidated. He wasn't expecting this woman, whoever she was. The memory, which had occurred when Tom Riddle was still young and human, had showed a shorter rather unattractive woman with a disturbingly perverted smile.

It was an improvement.

"Are you perchance," he asked, "Jocasta Xaviers? I was under the impression she owned this store." It was best to be sure. He didn't want this entire risky gamble into this forsaken street to be for nothing.

The woman shook her head gravely. "My mother died years ago," she said, her accent that of a native Londoner. "Though the store had always belonged to McCallisters. Why do you come here asking for her though?" Harry _did not_ like that look the woman was giving him. Definitely not. Did she think…gross. That explained why ole Tommy-boy had gone in and out and sent _others_ back for him.

Which wasn't an altogether bad idea.

"I'm sorry then," he replied. "I had heard of his store's excellent inventory for clothing and was told to ask for Jocasta Xaviers. I apologize for causing any trouble." With that he turned to leave, muttering curses under his breath.

Harry needed new clothing badly. It was an acknowledged fact. For one thing, Dudley's old clothes were beginning to wear out from use. And he was beginning to doubt that his belts would ever be able to hold up his pants anymore. The only decent things he had were his Hogwarts uniform and the Weasley sweaters he received from past years. But unlike the case with Dudley's things, these were getting small. He had decided to get his wizarding things while he was there and go shopping for Muggle clothing later (hopefully, getting a lot of help from the store clerks as Aunt Petunia never really taught him the ins and outs of purchasing clothing).

There was also the fact that image came to influence his decision. For one thing, there was always the chance that he had to appear in public. He had to send several letters back apologizing for not being able to attend parties or balls, partly due to the protection and partly because he had absolutely nothing to show up in. Yes, Harrison Evans show up in clothes look large enough to clothe three healthy hippos and a giraffe. Right. And he wasn't a child anymore. He wanted to be taken seriously. And if there were anything that made him appear more helpless, weak, and pathetic looking the most, then it would be his old wardrobe. Voldemort went for years masquerading as the unfortunate but brilliant student Tom Riddle, even now no one suspecting that the two were one in the same. From the memory he had been sucked into, Tom tried to keep his appearance groomed and well-kept, though there was always something messy on him. That, of course, endeared the 'innocent' and 'poor' student with the brilliant (but insane and psychotic) mind to most people. Same principle really.

"Wait, kid." The shopkeeper, flipping back her dusty brown hair (was it graying or not? Harry couldn't tell) as she called him. But her dual-colored eyes gave no indication that she particularly cared whether he left or not. "We still do offer clothing." Her eyes narrowed. "But I need to know who referred you. I don't let anyone wear my creations without knowing who they heard it from first." She crossed her arms across her chest, her chin held high in pride, one pale hand reaching for the wand situated in a leather holster on her belt.

He thought about it and then shrugged. It wasn't as if he couldn't think of something else to cover for him. However, he had the sneaking suspicion that this woman would be able to tell if he were lying, Legimens or not. Sighing, he pulled down the hood of his cloak, noticing from her stiffening posture that she knew without a doubt that he was Harry Potter. "Would you believe by searching through Voldemort's memories while trying to keep him from invading my mind?" Harry responded flippantly.

The woman blinked twice in mulled surprise before her thin lips settled into a wry smile. "I've heard stranger. And I've heard plenty. Take the murderer who came in because he liked the robes his victim was wearing when he did the deed." She turned around, motioning that he should follow her to the back room with an imperious wave of her hand. "The name's Seine McCallister. Come along then. Hopefully, we'll have what you are looking for."

He grinned in triumph. It looked as if he was going to get everything done just in time.

Perfect.

* * *

Just a note: this isn't a romance fic. Just letting you know. ---R.D.


	3. Nocturne de la Luna

* * *

Disclaimer: I only own the plot, the concept, any places and original characters you don't recognize, the aliases, and any articles/pieces of writing that the characters 'authored' in the course of this story.

* * *

**Celestial Requiem**

* * *

Chapter Three: Nocturne de la Luna

_The moon, the eternal guide of ages, inspiration of the romantic and the night, it forever has a place in our minds. The symbol of the unconscious mind and our primitive natures, the moon has led us to civilization as well, as a light in the dark. The watcher of everything, she is always there, as varied her faces as the shifting waves of the ocean. A paradox, a representation of the dark and the light, its true position in the hierarchy of things impossible for the mind to fathom. I must be patient and wait; neither light nor dark, and only time will tell what I will guide.   
But watch me, I will be great._

* * *

_(…from the Daily Prophet)  
_**The Ministry: Keeping Everything in Perspective**

As most people do in the morning, I read the newspaper. However, when I saw the first page, the first headline, I blinked, read it over again a couple of times, blinked once more before rubbing my eyes, believing myself either to still be asleep or perhaps hallucinating. I was neither. One really can't if they have tea with their breakfast, can they? No, the caffeine had proven me right: I am insane young man living in a perfectly sane world. For, of course, one must be sane to admit they were insane, correct? But that musing is for another time. And I don't think you want to hear about neither my apparent 'insanity' nor my psychological reasons to back this claim. Besides, I don't think I even have a reference on the matter. If you do want to hear about it, well, we definitely think on the same wavelength and I will be very wary upon meeting you in person if we ever get the chance.

But once again, that isn't my point, now isn't?

What did I see exactly? I saw a full-page spread on the Ministry's attempts to quell the rising Death Eater activity raging through the country. Oh, it was a well-written article; I'll give it that. Every other word was praising the heroics of the Law Enforcement agents and the Aurors, and of course, it was extremely grateful to the 'ever-vigilant', I believe the epithet was, Cornelius Fudge. How hard everyone was working in the fight against Voldemort, what plans were being made, recent stings on suspected Death Eaters, the whole lot. There was even more emphasis on how much we owe this spectacular government of ours. Let's not forget that our lives and the lives of our families are all indebted to them.

Right.

Did you know that it took me a full seven minutes to find an article that narrated the unfortunate deaths of five muggle families in Manchester, all related to well-known and influential wizards and witches? Deaths that could've been prevented? After all, according to the previous article, one of the major bases of the Ministry's forces is in Manchester. Also, the article barely three short paragraphs long, consisting of a total of only fifteen sentences.

We owe our lives to the Ministry. That's what the front page article said, right? The exact words of Head Auror George Jeralds, I believe.

I wonder how those muggles must feel. They were killed by magic and the only mention of their deaths is a fifteen sentence long mention on page thirteen.

Is that fair, to be placing the Ministry on so high a pedestal, when they hide the amount of deaths that they had the responsibility of preventing? They are lost in the pages of history, the importance of their lives less significant than the propaganda of the government and advertisements of Chocolate Frogs and Weasley Wizard Wheezes. They are giving no honor, no brief nod of sympathy and acknowledgement, only a small square hidden behind everything else that is supposedly more crucial to our lives. I had checked the muggle newspapers for the obituaries of every deceased person that died in that incident. They were pages long, filled with the laments of family and friends, commenting on what they had done in their lives, what they could've done if they lived longer, and how they had touched the lives of all those around them. The total amount of mourners at all of the funerals amounted to about two thousand people.

And they aren't worth a mention? No, the so-called progress of the Ministry in protecting us is much more prevalent than the demise of these innocent people, who had done nothing wrong, whose brief contact with magic ended their lives.

It shows how the Ministry keeps things in perspective, doesn't it?

And just for the final clincher, all the deceased relatives that were wizards and witches? There was no history of conflict or argument between them.

And yet…not a single one of them attended any of the funerals.__

_---Harrison Evans_

* * *

__

Outside the window of his compartment, a wiry young man observed the ruckus of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters behind the green-tinted lenses of thin-wired silver sunglasses. He lounged casually on the plush cushions of the seat, his feet up and his arms folded nonchalantly across his chest, with the grace of an imperious tiger. A black boot tapped lazily in the air, the young man wearing well-fitting black jeans that were ripped in some places, a white collared shirt, and a plain black blazer. His black hair, stillunruly as ever, was streaked with bright green that matched the vibrant emerald shade of his eyes. Packed away was a slightly battered trunk and in the corner was a birdcage, a snowy white owl snoozing within it.

This was Harry Potter, sixteen years old, who had just journeyed through hardship and depression and was trying to get a handle on his life, all the while waiting for more pain and various attempts on his life. He seemed pretty unconcerned about it all, really.

It was easy for him to spot which individuals were the Order members in the crowd. They were the ones that were looking around everywhere in every nook and cranny, trying to be inconspicuous but failing miserably. In particular, a large family of redheads was abysmal in their efforts. He shrugged indifferently. They were still treating him as if he were a child. They should know by now that he could take care of himself pretty well. His years at Hogwarts had certainly proven that and even last year, he was probably the only one out of the original six that set out from Hogwarts to the Department of Mysteries that still had any fight left in them when Voldemort decided to make his 'welcome' appearance.

He wasn't going out to meet them. They'll see he was fine soon enough. With a slight lurch the train began to move forward, the steam billowing past the window, parents waving as they pulled out of the station and towards Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Sighing, he leant back against the cushions, watching the bustling city turn into unremarkable suburbia, then finally demure green countryside. They whizzed by him at tremendous speed, veiled behind a thin layer of steam from the engine. The solitude was comforting, the feeling of eyes constantly on him for the moment abated in their mission to drive him to insanity. It was nice. Very nice.

After quite a few hours of this, in which, he knew that the train ride was nearly complete, the compartment door opened. Harry smirked, not once looking to see who had entered his compartment. "Hello, Hermione," he greeted cordially. "I see you've found me."

A long-suffering sigh was breathed into the air before the compartment door was shut with a snap. Hermione Granger, the bushy-haired intellectual of the so-called 'Golden Trio', then sat down beside Harry, all the while looking over at him with observant brown eyes. The trunk that had preceded her into the room was stacked neatly in the rack on top of Harry's, the contrast the new butter color that hers possessed contrasted greatly against the deep brown that was his old one. A paperback book was placed on an empty seat, its cover hidden from view.

"The prefect meeting took awhile," he commented, finally glancing her way. She had grown prettier and more feminine, but in her own way, still the same Hermione Granger. No dramatic wild changes, just a development, an evolution, into someone that she always was. Which he thought suited her better. She was no Cho Chang, but herself. Though he did notice that he was taller than her by at least three or so inches.

"Do you know how hard it was to track you down?" she chided. "First, there was that monster of a prefect meeting and then it was an hour searching for you. And I'm beginning to give up when I come across a locked compartment with the sign _'If you can read this, then you can come in.---HP'_. According to everyone else I asked, all they could come to a consensus was that it was Egyptian."

"Egyptian?" Harry chuckled out. "Should've thought of that one. Thanks! I'll be sure to use that instead of Swahili."

"You're incorrigible," she retorted, though she was biting back a smile. "Absolutely incorrigible."

"Thanks. What was it that needed to be discussed and all?" It was then that he was confronted with a giant sheaf of paper, an inch thick, which was emblazoned with the title of… "**Duties of the Vigilant Prefect**?" Harry intoned. "Beyond the fact that it sounds like something Percy Weasley would worship, didn't you get something like this last year?"

"No, we only got a lecture on what to do," Hermione replied, taking back the giant booklet. "This, however, dictates that we're supposed to rat out any suspicious activity at all, also what qualifies as it." The young woman scowled, placing a frizzy strand that had become loose from her hair clip behind her ear. "That's really only the beginning. We're supposed to spy, interrogate, everything! I'll have you know that I'm actually thinking of turning in my prefect badge."

Gaze focused outside the window, the green-eyed teen nodded. "So you object to being the secret police of Hogwarts? I know several people that would love to take up that post. Again." The Inquisitorial Squad and their malicious deeds still remained fresh in his memory. In particular, the sneering face of one blonde Slytherin grinning in sadistic triumph stood out starkly against the rest.

A grin flitted across Hermione's face. "Malfoy was stripped of his post this year, if you're interested." But the frown soon returned, drawing Harry's attention again. "But it wasn't because of his actions. It was because he was a Death Eater's son. He was also banned from quidditch. It was quite a scene since they 'regrettably' forgot to tell him until he stepped through the door of the prefects' car. They couldn't find another girl to take the spot away from Pansy, so she's still a prefect. However, Blaise Zabini is the new prefect now."

"I hope he knows how to run. Though I should be careful myself. Death threats, even from a prissy rich boy, should be taken seriously. And this somehow will be blamed on me, anyway. How's Ron?"

"Worse, if possible. He's lapping the whole thing up." She caught his eye, her own narrowed in anger at the absent redhead, but curious as to what he had to say. "What are we going to do about it?"

"Ignore him. If he wants to show that he is better than me, which I hardly care about in the first place, then let him. A show-off wishes only for attention and we only hurt him by not giving it to him." His voice was firmly neutral, no emotion present at all.

"Good. You had the same idea in mind," his friend responded. "It's why he isn't here. First he was positively giddy at Malfoy's disgrace and then started parading around as if he were the one in charge of all the prefects." Harry snorted. This was reminiscent of Percy, the brother that Ron hated for abandoning the family. Surely, it was noticeable the resemblance now? But apparently, it wasn't. The fact that he was trained specially by the Order of the Phoenix for the purpose of protecting the _"great Harry Potter" _had evidently gone to his head. "He found Seamus and some Ravenclaw boys talking about spells and quidditch. I tried to encourage him to leave, but after about ten minutes of his blather, I realized that he wasn't coming."

"It's no loss, Hermione," he assured. "You said his job was to protect me, right?"

"Yes…"

"Well, I don't see him now, do I? I'll add that to ignoring him: making his appointed task _exceedingly_ difficult."

"What about quidditch?" she pointed out. Harry imperceptibly winced. It was the thought he hated thinking about. It was unduly unfair in his circumstances. Just for defending someone's honor as well as being the favorite person of Delores Umbridge to torture, he was banned from what few activities that made him happy. "He is the keeper, isn't he? You'll have to work with him."

"I would, if I were still on the quidditch team." He silenced Hermione before she could speak, already reading her words from the angry expression crossing her face. "A ban for life is a ban for life, apparently."

"Didn't Dumbledore-?!"

"Supposedly."

"Oh." Realization crossed her face. "You think he did this because you have been hurt on the quidditch field practically every year you've been at Hogwarts?"

"Exactly." Harry readjusted his position, bringing his arms up around his head. "But I won't let it show. It'll worry him more if I show complete apathy to it all. It'll also keep my contact with Ron to a minimum. All that I have to be concerned about really is how to keep up my writing career."

"You can't be serious!" she exclaimed. "We're at school! It's going to be difficult enough to keep up with advanced classes and all. And we're away from the muggle world. I've been following your work - don't smirk at me!" Harry's grin became even wider. "The ones in the muggle newspapers are among your favorites. How are you going to stay in contact with the muggle news all the way at Hogwarts?"

"One person: Polonius Keyes. He's my new accountant and financial advisor. I arranged for him to send me several papers every so often. There's also a laptop which I got modified using some…contacts."

Hermione blinked for a second before laughing. "You've thought of everything haven't you, _Harrison_? I was wondering how the Order didn't detect a change in your accounts."

The black-haired teen smirked. "I like to think that I have. They didn't know because they are now in my hands. Are you willing to join me in this escapade of mine? It's rather enjoyable."

"I'll think on it. I'm still wary of the whole situation."

"And that is why, my dear friend who has yet to have an alias, is why you should trust Polonius Keyes. Being the head accountant of Gringotts does have its advantages, I hear."

Hermione scrutinized him for a long minute, her eyes roaming from his face, to his clothes, to his body language. "You've changed, Harry. But is it for better or for worse? I know you're stronger now, it's easy to tell, but do you feel that it's worth it after…"

Taking a readying breath, he said simply. "Personally, Hermione? I don't know. But I'd like to think it's for the better. And that all that suffering and pain that I've gone through…I feel that I've finally truly learned from it all. This time, I have power by being myself, not because I'm the supposed 'savior' or the Harry Potter. What I say has merit on itself for once." He continued, his voice serene and calm. "To you, I am your friend. But in the eyes of the Order of the Phoenix, and possibly Ron now, I am nothing more than a weapon. The means to achieve whatever ends they wish by taking advantage of me. But just because they think that, it doesn't mean this 'weapon' has to comply with their wishes."

* * *

The Great Hall was swelling with people and chatter. All of the faces were happy and celebrative, coos and yells of salutations ringing through the air, so many that it all didn't matter anymore, for you couldn't hear a thing. There were faces here and there that were pale and sad, but anger and indignation were the emotions more commonly shared by the Slytherin table. The separation between the houses had never been more evident: it was as if there was a line cutting the green from the others. Harry knew that it would only make matters worse to separate than to be together. One did not ignore a potential danger; they took care of before it became an actual, honest-to-goodness hazard. But when was there never a time when the popular - and more often, stupid - trend wasn't accepted?

One loud group in particular was crowded around the Gryffindor table, though most of the talk wasn't amongst themselves but rather focused on the admiration of one individual. This is person was someone Harry knew well. Or, he thought he did. Truth be told, he was reconsidering it. He was tall and gangly, with spiky red hair and prideful brown eyes, the large smile on his face showing his satisfaction at being the center of attention quite obvious. Three badges were pinned in a perfectly straight line across his robes: Gryffindor, Prefect, and Quidditch Captain.

Standing just on the outside of the doors, observing the scene within while others passed by to enter, Harry commented lightly to Hermione next to him, "I never thought I would accuse you of this, Hermione, but you were really understated the situation. Retract my previous thoughts, he's worse than Percy."

Hermione clucked in disapproval. "Look at him! I should slap him for acting like such a puffed-up idiotic, egotistical pig. But ignoring him would hurt more. And it would probably help my sanity."

"That's the spirit, I guess," Harry answered, before grinning at the sight before him in amusement. "You might never get a chance to slap him after this, though. The Slytherins look ready to commit murder. And I'm counting Professor Snape in that collection, as well." His eyes then returned to where Hermione was beside him, her stance angry and the knuckles of the hand that held her wand were white. "You were joking when you said that Professor Snape was a fan of mine, weren't you?"

She blinked for a moment. "Must you always change the subject so suddenly?"

"If I deem it so necessary."

"A **huge** fan. Sometimes even quotes you." Harry, to his credit, made a mock gesture of gagging. "He actually checked the Hogwarts records to see if 'you' were ever a student here. Hopefully, one of his Slytherins."

Those words from so long ago reverberated in his mind. _You could be great, you know…and Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness._ Well, it looked like he'd have to take an alternate route to greatness. He had missed that opportunity at eleven, but he wasn't going to overlook his chance this time. "Looks like we'll have to keep him in the dark then. Wouldn't want to break his fragile heart now, do we? Oh, almost forgot." Harry reached into the pocket of his robes, taking out a small thin case, throwing it at Hermione to catch it. She fumbled it for a moment, but succeeded in catching it.

After opening the clasp, Hermione was soon holding a pair of red-tinted sunglasses in her hands; the gold frames that held the glass were in a sleek, futuristic style more common to muggle fashions. They were small, not meant to overwhelm the face, as some sunglasses were wont to do. Hermione examined them skeptically, before looking at him and his own green shades, an eyebrow raised in an unspoken question. Harry, in response, just shrugged. "Mine are prescription, if that's what you're curious about. Besides, I needed to get you a birthday present. They're magical."

"What do they do?"

"C'mon! I won't ruin the surprise. It's much more fun anyway to find out on your own. Merlin knows I've had fun when I first got these. I got them at the same place I got my new clothes."

"So I've noticed," was the dry reply as she slipped on the present. "Gryffindor colors? You look like a Slytherin, Harry, with all your changes. That's going to cause some talk."

"Then let them talk. It only proves that for one thing, they really have nothing important to do with their lives." Harry straightened his robes, the difference between his garments and the norm of Hogwarts clear. The fabric was more expensive and durable, a deeper black. Sinuous runic designs, so tiny and elaborate in their gold and silver stitching that they resembled a smooth flowing river, lined the collar and edges. It was actually quite simple looking, but Harry carried it off well. Seine McCallister went above and beyond the expectations he had held when he had ventured into Knockturn Alley. As a result, he paid her well for her work. He could tell immediately from the first time he was fitted in them, that what the woman said to him about her products after entering that back room was true: Madame Malkin paled in comparison. "And it will take much more than civil conversation to get the name of my tailor out of me. They happen to run the extraordinarily suspicious, you-need-to-know-a-previous-customer-or-else-get-out kind of business. But they're the best, I'll give them that."

Ending their conversation, both walked into the Great Hall, following behind a group of talkative third years. Immediately, most of the talk that had pervaded the atmosphere was hushed, before rising again louder than it was before. The group that was previously surrounding Ron were now looking avidly at Harry and Hermione as they passed them by to go to the other end of the table, their whispers audible, but so muddled together that it was indecipherable to tell what they were saying. As they went by the redhead, he saw a brief scowl flit across his face before an arrogant grin replaced it. Ignoring the action, the pair went to the opposite end of the table, sitting next to Neville, who they greeted briefly. Ron soon joined them, a smug smile adorning his face now.

Harry was no longer paying attention though. Apathetic emerald green locked with concerned light blue. The lack of emotion that was shown made Albus Dumbledore even more worried than ever. It showed in every deepening crease that lined the old man's face. But that wasn't the primary goal of Harry Potter. No, he felt that there were more important things to deal with.

* * *

Idly, he tapped his quill against his parchment. It had to be the fourth day of classes. Hermione, sitting next to him, gave him an exasperated look, though he could tell that she too was also somewhat bored with the material. Harry made a soft sigh, trying to focus on the monotonous voice of their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, one Professor Desmond, but found it hard to. He did admit that the teacher knew what he was talking about – which was a rarity among Harry's overall experience with Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. But he really didn't make you care for it. Rather, he made one wish that the dark arts would just kill you and kill you mercifully.

He could already imagine the scene in his head…

_"Voldemort! Hey, Voldemort! Over here!"  
__"Potter! Why are you here?! Ah…so you've finally realized that it's impossible to defeat me? Well, I'm sure you'll find your peace in death!"  
__"Great!"  
__"…What?"  
__"Wonderful. You see that's **exactly **why I came here."  
__"You…came here…to die? That's it? No fight, no witty retorts, nothing?"  
__"Yep!"  
__"…You've gone mad, haven't you?"  
__"Nah, Tommy my boy. I was just suffering from boredom in practically all my classes. So! Ever done a mercy killing?"_

…That'd actually be funny, really.

He hated to admit it, but most of his classes were boring in this fashion. It wasn't really the teachers that were excruciatingly uninteresting. It was more of the topics themselves. Unlike other subjects and the regular OWL and NEWT level classes, where the teachers themselves decided what and how to teach, the ministry and the school governors kept a firm hold on what was taught to the Advanced NEWT students. The Advanced NEWT students those that had scored among the highest in the year level, one group of students from all the houses put together. The curriculum was completely set and was not to be taught in any other way than specified. More often than not, the professors themselves hated it. It was easy to read in the tightened lips as McGonagall taught about the more complicated theories of Animal-to-Animal transfiguration, in Flitwick's sorrowful face as they were taught how to create simple wind spells. Professor Snape took it out by being sourer than ever. Even some of his 'talented' Slytherins were not immune to his abrasive insults.

There was also the fact that they were going far too slow. Well, in his opinion and Hermione's at least. Studying had become somewhat second nature to him now, but he did in slow steps, not completely devoting himself to the matter. Most, however, were baffled. But Harry felt that he had a clear grasp of what was taught and understood quite thoroughly, as well that he could go ahead. Hermione also seemed disappointed by the sluggish pace, but she had not said anything. Yet.

The few days that had gone by were made a bit more entertaining by the antics of one Ronald Weasley. Sure, Harry was annoyed to no end by the conceited manner that Ron had now adopted, but what he dubbed 'Ron-running' was no doubt amusing. It probably never occurred to Dumbledore that Hermione would've probably made a better bodyguard (as if he needed one to begin with) just on the sheer fact of her knowledge and that he was in almost every single class with her. Alas, the old man had probably thought that Harry would have just gone into NEWT classes. Ron did try, though, to his credit. It was becoming a bit of a game to Harry now, outwitting Ron as the redhead try to shadow him in the hallways, corner him into talking, etc. Hermione feigned vexation at the entire mess, but he could tell that she found it funny on some level. Ron, without question, seemed to find his unconcerned and difficult manner frustrating. For example, their conversation at breakfast on the first day back:

_ "Harry! How was your summer?"  
__"Fine. Nothing much. You know the Dursleys."  
__"That's too bad, mate. 'Cause I had the best time! Would you believe that some of the 'old crowd' decided to teach me some of what they knew?"  
__"Really?"  
__"Yeah! I learned **so **much! Shield spells, different offensive spells, everything! I think it'll really help me become an Auror. It's too bad that I missed the cut for Snape's classes. The git gave me only an 'A'. But I think that nine OWLs will carry me pretty far. But what do you think about my summer."  
__ "That's nice, Ron."  
__"…That's it?"  
__"Basically. Oh, here are our schedules."  
__"Ah, Charms first today with the Ravenclaws. That's not so bad. Too bad you're not with us, Hermione; it's obvious that you got into the Advanced class. Let's go, Harry, I can't wait to show you all the spells I learned."  
__"Maybe for you it won't be so bad. Have fun then."  
__"What are you talking about? C'mon, Harry!"  
__"I've got Potions with Snape."  
__"WHAT?!"  
__"Advanced NEWT level."  
__"You're in…all Advanced NEWT level classes?!"  
__"Yep. I got 12 OWLs. Hermione, we better go. You know how Snape is. See you, later Ron."  
__"Wait a minute-"_

Was it a crime? He doubted it. And it was practice for avoiding this persistent crowd of girls that seemed to be following him everywhere. It was easy to know when they were around. Hark! The sound of giggling! According to Hermione, whose connections within the dormitories of the girls was a valuable asset, it seemed as if a number of Hogwarts girls now 'liked' him and saw him as on the market, these including Parvati and Lavender. That chance daydream (or daymare?) in Knockturn Alley seemed oddly prophetic now.

What it did give him was enough time to think. He did have quite a few articles due out in the next couple of days. Granted, most of his readers knew that he was still a student, though they were surprised when they found out. Particularly Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, who probably thought that they were reading the product of some thirty-something with nothing better to do than rant about anything. Hermione, after much persuasion and overall pestering from him, decided to write as well. She was concerned whether they would accept her or not, as ever since Harrison Evans decided to write, there had been an influx of opinion writers looking for a spot in the paper. It just took a simple letter from him to get the papers, both muggle and magical, to take the work of 'Helena Crawford' (she decided to take her mother's maiden name, as well). It didn't take long for her name to get out into the public as well.

Though it got him thinking. In the considerably short amount of time, Harrison Evans and now Helena Crawford were gaining wide recognition as well as causing quite a stir socially, in both worlds. Opinions were changing rapidly and it was easy to note that the Ministry lost some of its luster due to the article he had put out a few days ago. And he could tell on the rather worried face of the Headmaster and the smiling face of Professor Snape every single morning (the poor man didn't even know that the same person he yelled at every lesson in the past six years was his favorite writer) that in some ways what he was saying wasn't the same as the ideals that the Order of the Phoenix preached. Ah well. Too bad for them.

If one person was able to do so much, two were doing more. Imagine more in the mix. Should he consider bringing more into his scheme? It was a thought. If he did decide to include others, they would have to have to be intelligent people who weren't afraid of what others said about them and wanted to speak out. Also, they'd have to have strong opinions with the ability to express them. It really didn't matter what kind of an opinion, just an opinion, would be nice. And they could keep a secret. That was a must.

Hmm…he'd have to consider it thoroughly. Just because it seems like a good a idea at the time, didn't mean that it was in reality.

* * *

_(…from the Daily Prophet)  
_**The Lackluster Criticisms of a Bored Student/Writer**

Let's face it; all of you have wanted to write this one. Do not deny it! Well, I will achieve this dream for all of you, to those who wanted to scream their views of what they think of school out into the open, not just to their best friends. This is for all of you! Rejoice!

Now that we have that settled now.

As I mentioned in one of my previous articles – can't remember which one, but I'm sure I mentioned it at one time or the other – I am still a student. I attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, supposedly the best school of magic in the world, but I'll withhold judgment since I've never been to any of the other magical schools. Best to be fair, after all. Ignorance is the best way to put one's foot in their mouth, or another's fist into their face. Either way, not good ways to go.

I won't say what house I am from, though it is the truth that I probably shouldn't be in it. The Sorting Hat itself said so. But alas, the choice was made and here I am. To empathize with me, just imagine I was the somewhat quirky fellow in whatever house you are/were in. That will do just fine, as it basically describes me in a nutshell.

Let's say that through some amazing twist of fate, in which whoever handling fate must have been extremely well inebriated at the time, I achieved quite a number of OWLs and made it into the prestigious Advanced NEWT classes. This is all well and fine, certainly. I go and learn a number more spells and theory than you do and the Ministry will immediately put me in some high-end job so I can make the rest of your life a living hell while I laugh at the novelty of the entire situation. Granted, this happens quite a bit, but I doubt it will ever happen to me. After all my articles criticizing the Ministry, I'd think they'd be more than happy to just throw me off a cliff, or at least deport or banish me. Whatever shoots their fancy, I say. For lack of a better phrase, I'll use the one that my rather perverted dorm mate said randomly in the early hours of the morning when asked how well did he think that our Transfiguration professor would say about the essay we had due that day, "As long as it isn't kinky."

This all must be so familiar to all you Hogwarts alumni. Quirky guy, perverted guy, early hour conversations that go nowhere, what's next? I'll spare you. I'm not talking about that at all. Maybe some other time.

For all of you that had thought that being in the Advanced NEWT classes must be amazing and that we learn a variety of incredible things, you are sorely mistaken. We are bored out of our tiny, little minds! The teachers are not to blame for this. Not at all, so don't send any mail to them saying to cease my torture. My potions professor would probably not listen anyway. Unlike other classes, as the OWL and regular NEWT classes, the school governors as well as the Ministry of Magic sets the Advanced NEWT curriculum jointly. Everything must be taught in a certain way at a certain time, no excuses. You can imagine the bafflement when we are confronted with a quiz on what we had learned in the past two days of class and have no idea of what to put down. Most of us had barely understood the subject matter to begin with. I am one of the lucky few that feel that we go too _slowly_, but I am a man of the people, writing for the majority of us poor students.

It is easy to see that the teachers aren't too pleased with the classes either. I can't blame them either. For the most part, the directions placed upon them inhibit their regular teaching methods considerably. You can see it in the face and the attitude of every single professor here. It doesn't help that the syllabus itself is unbearably boring beyond belief. That's the second reason, other than the fact that the subject matter is incomprehensible at best, why we are confused. The only remotely interesting class anymore is Potions, where the acerbic wit of the potions master as well as the threat of losing considerable house points is a pretty good reason to be attentive and a wonderful class to love. There's a reason why Professor Severus Snape is my favorite teacher, after all. I'm sure my good friend, Helena Crawford, would agree that he is an excellent teacher, though she is more partial to the fair and no-nonsense attitude of Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall.

What do I think? Change the system!

But what do I know? I'm a student. If the education system listened to me, there would be only three days of school each week with sweets and butterbeer served to us students at our every whim, quidditch matches weekly. Not that it wouldn't be a bad thing, you have to agree.

_---Harrison Evans  
_

"You just had to write this, didn't you, Harry?"

"Yep, that I did. Don't be so concerned, I didn't exactly say that I _was _in the Advanced NEWT classes; just implying the stresses that one of the Advanced NEWT students feels at the moment. And that it's a possibility that I am. Or that I might not be. Either way, I'm speaking out for us, Hermione!"

"I suppose that ambiguity will throw people off. Well, I can say that Professor Snape seems to be in a considerably good mood."

"Why do you think I wrote it? If he thinks that 'Harrison Evans' and 'Helena Crawford' are in his Advanced NEWT Potions class and that they like him, he might go easy on those essays we have to hand in today, even if he doesn't know who we are."

* * *


	4. Bolero of Mars

* * *

Disclaimer: I only own the plot, the concept, any places and original characters you don't recognize, the aliases, and any articles/pieces of writing that the characters 'authored' in the course of this story.

* * *

Chapter Four: Bolero of Mars

_Mars is bright, an eerie connotation that conflict is brewing just on the horizon, on the verge of being unleashed. It is hard to believe that such a small planet is such an influential force on us Earth-bound creatures. The chariots of war are coming, romancing the blood in us, the instinctive trait to fight that we were all born with. It is useless to deny this fact, no matter how civilized and cultured we consider ourselves. There are just some people that truly take in the fires of Mars into their blood, capturing the resplendent glory and overwhelming tragic sorrow of war and battle, and turning it into their unyielding strength.   
And it is those individuals that do so who are the most dangerous people of them all._

* * *

_(…in the London Mirror)  
_**The Apathetic Concept: How Chivalry is More Than Just Figuratively Dead**

This happens to me so many times a day that I found it to be far from funny, though as I'm now writing this, my dear friend Harrison Evans is now laughing at me. Well, he's a fault, too, so he better pay attention. I doubt that he will, he's writing out another article, but one could hope that some sense would somehow pound itself into his little head.

What I'm talking about is, of course, getting the door slammed in your face. It's obvious that the person in front of you knows that you are there – they might even be talking to you as your walking. However, they make no attempt to keep the door open for you. They let it fly back. Sure, it isn't a big deal in general. But it does show how the world has changed in so many ways as years pass us by, particular in the facets of what is polite and acceptable towards each other.

It is widely quoted that chivalry is dead. The once widely held code of honor, originating among the knights of the European Medieval Period, has seemed to vanish in the minds of the more current generations. In those long gone times, it was believed that manners and etiquette were a sign of intelligence, wealth, and worldliness. A sense of decorum was maintained in nearly all aspects of social interaction, particularly between men and women. A similar system, called _bushido,_ was established in Japan in their Feudal Era among the samurai warrior class. These social mandates demanded that the individual be considerate of others, hold respect for elders and authority, a high treatment of women, and above all, a sense of duty.

Of course, times and people change. Gradually, the importance of decorum has decreased over the years, despite attempts to keep it alive, until it eventually has become even a rarity among the more noble and wealthier people in the world. To be put bluntly, it is seen as rather arrogant nowadays to show much consideration, such as excusing oneself or even saying please. Another striking aspect of today's lifestyle is how we apologize. For every little mistake that we make, we say "sorry". But it's come to the point where it is so natural to us that we don't even mean it anymore. The word comes out of our mouth before the actual consciousness of the error has even come to mind. It hardly is worth anything anymore.

It doesn't help that popular culture is a complete contrast to this way of thinking. How can anyone expect the youth of today to learn basic lessons of politeness from what they see and hear everyday. They are assaulted with images of men acting tough and getting into fights as well as having more than a dozen women on top of them wearing clothing that barely covers the bare essentials. Money is the thing that must be possessed so that they could have the best stereos and cars, etc., and it doesn't matter what they do to get it. Profanity is seen as something to be included in every sentence, degrading terms used to imply some sort of sense of camaraderie amongst each other. What kind of example are we giving them? It certainly isn't helping matters.

So what should you expect from society in the future? Not much by way of manners, I assure you. It seems that chivalry is, in fact, dead. Is there hope that in someway, there is hope to counteract this blatant descent towards complete apathy towards each other? Who can really say?

But I will say this, though. If anyone calls me anything besides "Miss Crawford" or "Helena", then don't be surprised if I lapse in my decorum as a lady to slap you across the face.

_---Helena Crawford_

* * *

Outside one of London's most well known and popular hotels was a large crowd, screaming and talking, the bright flashes of cameras flashing each and every which way. They lined up down both sides of the street, kept behind erected barriers. This did not hinder some people from trying to get over them though, but they were contained by those people who were next to them. After all, it wouldn't be fair. Above them, the hotel stood like a gilded palace among the more gothic and simpler buildings that surrounded it. The stone was lighter, with decorative arches and turrets, the windows large and elaborate. Flags hung from poles high above the ground level, the colors contrasting with the shadows from the luminous streetlights. The expensive cars and limousines drove up to the front of the extravagant building, valets rushing to open doors and to help those 'golden' people step out into the eye of their adoring public.

It was in one particular car, a dark blue Rolls-Royce, which one Harry Potter and one Hermione Granger were currently sitting in. The young man was looking out the window in what could be called surprised amusement. The other…was the very definition of nerves, to put it mildly. As their car turned the corner, the crowd became more restless, heads craning out to see who was the next to join this gathering.

"Harry," Hermione muttered, her voice tight with anxiety. "We are going to get in _so _much trouble for this. What if we're recognized? Look at them all out there!" She pointed to the groups of photographers that overwhelmed the older gentleman that had stepped out of the car in front of them. "Those people aren't going to miss a chance like this to capture the ever elusive Harrison Evans and Helena Crawford on film. And knowing how large this charity event is, the photos are going to be in nearly ever newspaper in the country. And let's not forget the Internet." The girl looked over to her friend/co-conspirator with a cocked eyebrow. "While they may not have magic like wizards and witches, they do have one major advantage: communication. This is going to get all over the place in mere minutes."

Harry nodded solemnly, glancing out the window with some concern. "I do realize we're taking a big risk by doing this, especially since I know for a fact that Professor Dumbledore reads the muggle newspapers as well. It was lucky enough that Keyes managed to smuggle us a portkey to Diagon Alley to get outfitted and let us use his car. But we do have help." He then smirked, taking of his sunglasses. She leaned in towards him, to see what he was doing. Harry pressed a small black crescent moon symbol that was engraved in the silver arm of the glasses. The green colored glass flickered for a moment before resuming its normal color. Harry placed them back on his nose, shrugging while smiling crookedly, noting how his friend at blinked before looking at him oddly.

"What did you do?" she asked. "You look…different, somehow." Her brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I see. The glasses have an enchantment on them to disguise you." Hermione reached into her small bag, lying abandoned on the seat. After rummaging into it for a few moments, she pulled out the slim case that held her own pair. Carefully taking the gold and red glasses out, she asked, "I assume these can do the same?" She examined the arm of her own pair, finding the mark quickly. Soon enough, the red lenses flickered in the same fashion as Harry's just had before she put them on. Before Harry's eyes, the Hermione became different before his eyes. That is, until it just faded to a slight red aura of light that surrounded the Hermione he knew.

Harry nodded, smiling that she caught on so quickly. Though it was to be expected from Hermione, after all. She was the smartest witch in his year for a reason. "Right. If anyone looks at as, they wouldn't recognize us as Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, but completely different people. Though we won't see the difference if we look at each other through these."

"I'm still nervous about this, Harry," she replied, before she paused, twisting her expression slightly. "_Harrison._ I have to get used to that. _Harrison_. Not that it makes much difference, but someone might catch on. I'd rather be on the safe side since we aren't exactly protected by magical wards here."

He nodded, "You do have a point, Helena. We'll just have be extremely careful, that's all. And I doubt it will be as bad as you think it is." He stretched, watching their driver as they slowly made their way up the street. " We did do as much research as we possibly could considering the small amount of medical material about leukemia in the Hogwarts Library…as I was informed so many times…"

"Be quiet!" She sniffed in disdain, scowling at his grin. "I find it rather insulting on the school's part. Honestly, they should have this information available to us! Just because muggle diseases aren't as prevalent among wizards, doesn't mean that they should only have five outdated books on the subject! If it wasn't for that laptop, we'd be done for!"

He nodded in agreement, but was soon distracted as the car pulled to a complete stop. The driver gave them a significant look before the door was opened by a young (and very curious) valet. Already, in the shadows of the vehicle, he could see the blatant excitement emblazoned on each and every face outside. "Well, let's do this," he proclaimed with a sigh, sliding himself out of the car, stopping to help Hermione out.

The wild cheering hit him like a wave. And if it weren't for the sunglasses, he was sure that he would've been made blind by the flashing bulbs of cameras.

It was a crowning moment. For at this time, the two opinion writers, who were considered to be among the most influential people in England (and whose popularity was growing abroad as well), made their first public appearance. And though the public was expecting them to be somewhat different than what they appeared to be, they liked what they saw.

In the papers the next day and circulating the World Wide Web the next day were pictures of celebrities on the red carpet of that event, especially of two individuals. One was of a thin pale young man with messy dark hair streaked with green and sunglasses shielding his eyes, looking comfortable and confident, a scheming smirk on his face. He wore a dark coat over a simple white dress shirt and slacks. The other was of a mature looking young woman that wore her light brown hair up in a French braid and a pair of red sunglasses perched on her nose. She wore a knee-length dress in deep dark red that exuded class and completely suited her figure.

It was a pity to those poor muggle photographers. It didn't take long for some schmuck from the wizarding newspapers to grab one of the better photos and take the credit.

Thus, Harrison Evans and Helena Crawford were introduced to the world that eagerly was waiting to see its rising stars.

And the world liked what they read. And liked what they saw.

* * *

"To tell you the truth, I think we did pretty well."

"I hate to admit it, but you were right. And it was actually fun. Now we just have to see how everyone _else_ reacts."

The pair walked into the Great Hall, bypassing the now usual crowd that surrounded Ron to sit down in the empty seats near Lavender and Parvati, that latter seeming to be enthralled in the latest edition of the Daily Prophet. It wasn't soon after that Ron joined them, greeting them jovially before starting to eat, a couple of girls coming over to talk to him. Or as Harry preferred to call it – prattle. They tried a few times to engage him in conversation, but he just gave an indifferent nod to answer. Hermione was glaring daggers at the giggling airheads and if he could predict what would happen next from the steely glint in her eyes, Ron would be soon occupying a small box six feet under in a very small plot of land. And his gravestone would probably be engraved with some far from flattering epithet. He snorted into his pumpkin juice when Hermione pushed some awestruck Hufflepuff girl aside after the said girl's hands nearly smacked her face for the fifteenth time with her wild and excited hand movements.

"Look, Lav! Can you believe it? They got pictures from some charity thing in London…for some muggle disease or something." Parvati's voice interrupted, drawing his and Hermione's attention. The Indian girl leaned over to show the front page of the newspaper to her friend across from her.

"Why would I care about some–," Lavender began before stopping abruptly, her eyes widening and the fork laden with scrambled egg clattering onto her plate. "Who is **that** god of a man?!" Hermione rolled her eyes at the other girl's behavior, apparently used to it. They were probably talking about some of the celebrities at that event. After meeting them in person, he had to admit that it wasn't such a big deal or anything. Harry shrugged in return before spooning some of the warm porridge that the house elves had made to warm and wake up the students for the day. It was a gift sent from heaven in his opinion, considering that they had made it back to Hogwarts near four o'clock in the morning.

"That god," Parvati squealed, "is _the _Harrison Evans!"

Harry nearly choked on the porridge.

"That writer? Oh. My. GOD!"

"I KNOW! And guess what?!"

"What?" Lavender asked breathlessly.

"HE'S SINGLE!" eliciting two high-pitched screams of delight.

Shocked green eyes looked over at the two girls, who were gazing at the picture as if it was a priceless treasure. _They can't be serious_, he thought dazedly. But judging from the way they were practically worshipping the paper, he had to face the facts: that daymare, as he dubbed it, that he had in Knockturn Alley was coming true. Looking across from him, he saw Hermione struggling not to laugh. He gave her a questioning look, to which she just discreetly pointed at his face. Harry made a face back at her, not seeing the humor, causing her to bite her lip to hold back her peels of laughter. That Hufflepuff girl became curious at the small commotion that Lavender and Parvati were causing looked over and soon joined them in their apparent admiration.

It wasn't long before the group of girls was now surrounding the paper, girlish exclamations soon pervading the conversation. And then the word spread across the Great Hall – as gossip tended to do in schools – and papers were soon being torn open and even more girls were talking. To their credit, the boys of the Hogwarts population looked utterly confused or in some cases, like Ron (and Malfoy as well, judging from the pissed off look), jealous. Hermione tugging on the sleeve of his robes, motioning him to the exit, drew his attention. Feeling as if he were in a strange dream, he stood up and followed her out of the Hall.

This was completely and totally unexpected. He was a serious writer, with ambition and a purpose! And that purpose did not include being some kind of idol for teenage girls!

"Hermione? Exactly **_how_ **many girls just pledged their undying love for me in there?"

"From what I could hear, about sixty. Though I heard quite a few sighs and saw many adoring eyes as well."

"Kill me now. I don't care how, just do it."

* * *

In the 'exciting' class that was Advanced NEWT Charms, Harry was not really paying attention to the lesson. Most of it was theory, torn out of a rather mind-numbing textbook written by a man who probably bored himself if Harry was to go by the picture. Edgar Blatts was slumped over in his tiny little picture, head leaning into the palm of his hand, his eyes completely unfocused and unkempt hair looking as though Edgar had been electrocuted. That was how many of the students, including himself and Flitwick, felt. Hermione alone looked somewhat – alive – but it was more because of the fact that she was writing her next article. And she was still making fun of him about the whole thing at breakfast.

He personally didn't want to keep thinking about that.

As for Harry himself, on top of the short lines of notes that he had written during the lesson, was another piece of parchment. It was folded and crinkled many times, largely because he kept it in his pocket most of the time. The tip of his quill tapped against the surface, its black feather brushing his chin as his thoughts and schemes whirled around at a rapid speed through his mind.

The deal between the two of them was simple. If Harry could think of a few people, preferably among those in the Advanced NEWTs, then she would consider it. They would discuss and then decide. If they could write, had an opinion, were willing, and could keep a secret, then they were a possibility. The choice to include more was still tentative. If one word got out, then it could all be over. Dumbledore would shut down on their literary careers, restricting them, and probably putting more focus on them. Or, he could 'ask' them to write in support of the Order, whereas Harrison Evans and Helena Crawford had been more or less neutral in their articles pertaining to the war raging through the wizarding world: blasting the Ministry, Order, and Voldemort equally.

And besides, he wasn't going to let someone manipulate him again. Nor was he going to help them manipulate the others either. The strings were going to be pulled by him now and that wasn't going to change.

As of yet, he had quite a few names, largely from outside of Gryffindor house. Though it was a confirmed fact that Hermione and himself were the only two with consistent Advanced classes (most had one or two, the rest just NEWT level), it was more of an equalizing measure. He wanted people who thought differently, with views that weren't exactly the same as his or Hermione's but individual, who underwent other kinds of influences. Ones that largely did not stand out too much or reveal too much of themselves would be a plus, but he was being flexible in this case. After a while, he had eliminated the Ravenclaw candidate to either Padma Patil or Lisa Turpin. He was leaning towards Lisa, a quiet girl who he didn't know much about other than an impressive treatise on the use of Transfiguration in the medical field. And Padma seemed to be constantly around Ron lately. Out of Hufflepuff, one Jason Connolly seemed to be the best. Most of the Hufflepuffs stuck together, but they didn't appear to include Connolly on this. It may possibly have to do with the fact that when that kid debated, he didn't give up on his view and defended his point with biting fact and passion. The argument between himself, Hermione, and Jason in Charms about the legal use of the dangers and benefits of anesthesia spells had lasted nearly all period.

The candidate from Slytherin…and that's where he encountered a very large problem. Harry bit his lip in dismay at the utter failure of it, though if one were to glance at him, he would look completely perplexed at the lesson. He was perplexed, he would admit that, but not about that subject. There were only three Slytherins in the Advanced NEWT classes. He didn't trust Sally-Anne Perks, a sneaky girl who seemed to always be stealing answers from those next to her. The same standard went to Gunther Moon, whose apparent crush on Susan Bones was just as apparently returned in disgust.

As for the last person, they did fit the structure. They demanded that their opinion be heard about **everything** and didn't seem to care about the fact that others might not share the same view. Granted, they could use a lot of improvement in defending their point, but there was promise. They could write adequately. They had few friends, as mindless followers hanging on your every word just to advance politically did not count in that category. Also, they had experience in the ways of the wizarding world and **definitely** was exposed to…different influences.

The problem was that said person was Draco Malfoy. And Harry Potter would never ask Malfoy to join him in this escapade. They hated each other and Malfoy's personality in general was absolutely repelling. It'd be a veritable suicide attempt. Key word there being 'attempt', as he couldn't imagine Malfoy pulling off a simple murder without botching it up in some way.

Well, if it ever came down to it (Merlin forbid), there was only one surefire solution. It was a solution that would probably be disapproved by Hermione, but would doubtlessly work flawlessly. And it would be something that the slimy Slytherin would understand quite well.

Blackmail. Pure and simple blackmail.

And though he wouldn't admit it out loud, the very idea itself on his own sounded fun. But that was a completely different thing altogether. He let out a soft sigh, a smirk forming on his face. Maybe he had spent just **too **much time in Voldemort's mind. The sadistic, evil megalomaniac was rubbing off on him.

Which was a wholly scary thing and that too was a completely different thing altogether.

* * *

_(in Times Magazine)  
_**Harrison Evans…Superstar?  
****The Unbelievable Becomes Reality**

Hello. This article is about Harrison Evans. You may have heard of him lately, in the newspapers, on the news programs, on a couple of opinion websites, on debate and political shows, various late shows hosted by comedians, etc. You may have seen him on the cover of several magazines at a heavily featured charity event in London hosted by media mogul Clarence Morgan-Bates. Strangely, you also may have heard his name accompanied by sighs and maybe, if I may so utter, giggling. He's become a household name in most parts of Europe and even other parts of the world are beginning to know, and amazingly in most cases, respect him and his opinions.

Well, I can't really do anything about that, can I? And yes, you are now speaking (metaphorically, as literally you are in fact, reading) to Harrison Evans. Yes, the one that they are all talking about. Should you feel joy? An intense feeling of euphoria at the onset of reading a _genuine _article written by Harrison Evans to you, the fantastic and loyal readers?

Of course not, there are many more things to get excited over than little ole me. And it isn't like this is going to be the last article I'm going to write. Oh, I'm continuing, until either someone slips a straightjacket on me or the carpal tunnel will. I'm hoping for the former people, as carpal tunnel does sound quite painful. A nod of respect to all those that has had it or is experiencing it, we all feel your pain.

You don't know how weird this all is, actually. Or maybe you do, I don't know that. I'm just a teenager and I'm being spoken about with the same amount of reverence that the likes of such notables as the Prime Minister and United Nations ambassadors possess. If I were normal, I would probably be more worried about my grades at school and getting a hot girlfriend. Not that I'm not worrying about that, I assure you that I am a red-blooded teenage male. But who in their right mind would imagine that a lowly person such as I would achieve such fame? I certainly didn't. It's strange to have people know your name. And it's wildly different. Usually, I've just been known for getting into bizarre situations or into a couple of fights in the typical high-school rivalries. I haven't yet decided whether I like it or not, since I'm generally unused to this kind of attention. Most of the time, my praise fluctuates between small awe and condescension.

I've promised myself I would never let it go to my head. My ego maintains that I have the tenacity to tough it out and maintain being the strange and opinionated person I have been, whether it's about the state of the world security to social commentary to grapefruit. And you can trust my ego – as my pride wouldn't allow me to yield to defeat.

…That isn't comforting, is it? Well, I've tried. If I failed utterly…then I yield. Deal with it.

Thankfully, I get no special treatment around here at school. I try to keep it quiet. I've had some experience with fame at the local level – one tends to achieve notoriety when you and your friend crash the car of the dad of your said friend into a tree right on school property when unsuccessfully trying to sojourn to the facility itself. Needless to say, we were probably put in the history books (of the school), along with the incredible tirade my friend received when his mother found out. I can't imagine it here. The good news about all this is that I haven't gotten into trouble lately. I assure that this is an amazing feet. Rather than making my professors proud, they are instead wondering if I'm sick or something…or if I'm planning something. May my innocence be maintained?

My point is this: luck exists and apparently I have a lot of it. But that doesn't mean it lasts (I have experience in that department). Anyone can become well known if they tried. It doesn't have to be about writing, but other things that you can be good at.

Now that is out of the way, I have this to ask. For all those single people out there looking for a boyfriend, you should know these little tidbits. One, I am underage. The marriage proposals can wait until after I reach the legal limit. And two, please don't send large pictures of yourself naked on them. It's just common courtesy.

_­---Harrison Evans_

* * *

"Potter, stay after class," McGonagall said gently after class ended. Hermione gave him a wary look before continuing off behind him, tucking a certain folded piece of parchment into the pockets of her robes. Malfoy also gave him a distrustful look, though Harry doubted it was one out of concern for him. More likely out of curiosity, wanting to see exactly why he had been called up, if he had gotten into trouble and if he was going to be punished.

And that situation was doubtful, since he hadn't gotten into any trouble (if one discounted the usual Snape behavior, as that had become a rather normal routine for the Gryffindor). It was amazing in and of itself. Harry Potter had lasted a full two and a half weeks without even stepping a toe out of line.

_Snape was standing in the middle of the Great Hall, arms raised in the air in ecstatic rapture, wearing a flowing white robe that was billowing in the wind. "It's a miracle!" he was proclaiming. "A Potter that hasn't gotten in trouble or attempted to get himself killed in over two weeks! I have become a believer!" He dropped to his knees, tears running down his cheeks in rivulets, announcing to the full population of Hogwarts, "There is a higher power! I will become a benevolent soul! No more shall I wear black and torment innocent children! My mission in life now is promote peace, happiness, and above all LOVE!"_

Yeah. Right. Maybe something **was **wrong with him.

Ignoring his wild imaginings, however amusing they were, to standing in front of the stern Transfiguration professor's desk. He gave her an inquisitive glance; taking in the almost maternal look she gave him. She probably thought he was still sensitive about Sirius' death. Oh, he was still hurting from that. Considerably so. But he was healing, albeit slowly and in a very unconventional fashion. She paused, as if not knowing how to phrase what she wanted to tell him, before it became evident that she was going to just say it as it was. Which he considered a good thing. He couldn't imagine McGonagall making flowery small talk.

"The Headmaster would like to speak to you right now. You'll be excused from your next class."

Let the games begin.

* * *


	5. Jupiter Pavane

* * *

Disclaimer: I only own the plot, the concept, any places and original characters you don't recognize, the aliases, and any articles/pieces of writing that the characters 'authored' in the course of this story.

* * *

**Celestial Requiem**

* * *

**Chapter Five: Jupiter Pavane**

_Jupiter, the king of the gods, the ruler of the celestial wanderers, his influence is undeniable. Imagine what that planet would have been like, should it have lived? But no, the sway of Jupiter shattered it into pieces, leaving only the sad remnants of a possibility. But I must ask myself whether I will become like that lost planet, drifting away in oblivion as the clock continues to tick eternally on, lost and irretrievable? Or will I allow myself to be destroyed once again by the powers of figures that are much larger than myself?_  
_I won't be broken again._

* * *

__

It should have come as a shock to him. Really, it should have. But in the larger scheme of things, Harry had predicted this moment long before the call had come. Such a move **had** to be made by the old Headmaster. After the chaotic events of the prior year, cumulating into the tragic death of his godfather in exchange for revealing Voldemort to the world as well as having that cursed prophecy told to him, it was inevitable that he be summoned up for a chat. Given his mental state then, there was no doubt that Harry had become an unstable element in this grand tapestry of lies, deceit, war, and death.

In their minds, no doubt they felt that he had the time to recover and move on. Now they needed to get him back on track, back to figuring out how to defeat the ever-powerful Dark Lord using him as both a weapon and a shield. Of course, some excuse must be made to give him the space and guidance he supposedly needed. Even if it was to his own possible doom.

As Harry himself walked down the empty corridors, he frowned slightly at the thought of the confrontation. How would he manage this little meeting? Which role should he play as? He most assuredly could not be his new self – the connotation that he was Harrison Evans would be all the more obvious to the old man, as well as the knowledge that Harry himself had been influenced heavily by the mind of his enemy. So, would it be the heroically brave martyr? How about the pitiful and struggling youth, attempting to make sense and survive out in a world determined tow ear him down to dust?

This required careful planning. That was certain. And though he had predicted this would come eventually, he did not think it would be so soon. He had needed to see the actions of the Headmaster before making up a set persona to act out; one that would throw off any suspicion of his other motives and would genuinely hurt them.

He did not want to be cruel. In no such way whatsoever. Though he may have picked it up after seeing all he had over his lifetime, as cruelty was the only thing that he had really known in his life. But, no. That wasn't it. He just wanted them to see that they **had** hurt him – deeply at that – and feel remorse for what they had done. If they showed any at all, in retrospect.

As he moved down the hallways, approaching the passage where the entrance lay, inspiration hit him like a stinging curse. He remembered the look of worry the Headmaster had thrown his way as soon as he saw the cold look during the Welcoming Feast. After that, he had kept such glances to a minimum. But it was clear that had seriously caused some anxiety.

He had an advantage after all. And he would be a fool not to utilize it.

Harry paused for a moment, studying his slightly distorted image reflected back on the sheen of a knight's armor. He cast a quick spell on his robes and uniform, adding a few wrinkles here and there, deliberately loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar, trying to make himself look as if he did not care that much about his appearance. It was doubtful that the Headmaster would notice; the man hadn't been to breakfast or dinner in a week. It did not take long for him to replace the scheming shine of his green eyes to the dull cold emerald of apathy and weariness. Lastly, he ruffled the back of his hair, making the wild locks of hair even messier, like he had witnessed – with some disgust and embarrassment at the memory – his father doing in Snape's pensieve. Of course, he made sure that the green highlights of his hair were more noticeable before continuing on, his steps less confident and purposeful but distinctly reluctant.

This was a role he was playing. And image had to be applied to be successful in this game.

The gargoyle was as ugly as it ever was. For good measure, he gave the inanimate a scathing look (though not worthy of any Snape-caliber glare) and gave the password. Hershey kisses. As he stepped onto the stairs and proceeded upward, he grimaced at the choice. Why must the man persist in with the candy theme? Anyone familiar enough with either him or muggle sweets would be able to guess the password eventually.

But he must admit that if Voldemort did manage to infiltrate and take over the school, and the Headmaster's office was the last defense for the ancient professor, he could not imagine the ever "cheerful" Dark Lord standing in front of that horrendous gargoyle trying out candy names.

_"Snickers?"  
__"Is that a candy name, milord?"  
__"Silence, minion! Hmm…Skittles?"  
__"Forgive me, my Lord, but what are you saying?"  
__"What did I say about shutting up?!"  
__"Yes, my lord."  
__"…I've got it! ALMOND JOY!"  
__"…Sir, I don't think that was it…maybe it's Smarties?"  
__"That's it! Avada Kedavra! … Now back to the matter at – damn it, it was Smarties!"  
  
_

He was shaken out of this little imagination trip by the halting of the stairs and a beckoning call to enter from within the chambers. Harry cringed slightly – that wasn't wise to do while so close to a Legilimens . Harry didn't need his sanity questioned…more so than he had planned at any rate.

It's too bad though. He kind of liked the Death Eater minion. And he could just visualize Voldemort in a rage over the fact that he couldn't get the door open but some grunt could. That must be really daunting to the ego of a homicidal megalomaniac making his comeback.

…why did everyone have a minion except him?

…Really, this wasn't the time to be thinking of these sorts of things. Not at a time where he must be focused and ready to deal with Albus Dumbledore.

With a slight feeling of foreboding, which he swiftly hid behind a neutral expression, one that conveyed no feeling and no thought, he stepped into the office.

The office was slightly different from what it used to be – courtesy of Harry himself and his out-of-control temper tantrum. What few of the whirring and shiny contraptions that were not smashed were not displayed and the shelves that once showed them were empty. As soon as he entered, the portraits of the old headmasters that were present whispered among themselves before leaving in a hurry. Perched precariously on a perch in the corner was the phoenix Fawkes, in its young fledgling form, the slight specks of ashes on the carpet indicating that not much time had passed since the bird's Burning Day.

And, as he should have expected, the Headmaster was sitting behind his paper-cluttered desk. The pile of newspapers and magazines – including an edition of Time lay under a pile of unopened mail. He'd have to remedy that. Meanwhile, the professor was drinking a cup of tea with such nonchalance that Harry was sure that the slight spasm of annoyance flitted across his face for a brief moment before it was hidden once more behind his expressionless mask. Dumbledore looked older in his eyes, frailer, somehow lacking that same strength that he had always sensed in the older man's presence. However, those piercing blue eyes were still as sharp as they ever were, observing his every move with intense precision. He hastily cloaked his mind in rather…mundane and boring thoughts…before the older man had a chance to use Legilimency . "Have a seat, Harry," was the calm greeting, coupled with a benign wave toward one of the armchairs. Keeping up his charade, with the added feature of suspicion, he warily took a chair, not saying a word, averting his eyes. Just waiting.

For few minutes, this went on, until Dumbledore cleared his throat and spoke again. "The reason I called you here, Harry," he continued, "was to ask how you were doing."

"Fine, I guess," was the somewhat vague and solemn reply.

"Harry…I know it still hurts you." Harry repressed a snarl of anger at the acknowledgment. How could he know what he was feeling? What he went through? "I understand that you're still grieving, but you shouldn't lose yourself in loss." A soft sigh and despite his new skills, he found it hard to just not lash out and cry again. No. He couldn't do that. He had to stay on track. Focus. He had come too far to back off now. He was no child, if he ever was one to begin with, so he couldn't go running to the nearest adult and expect everything to be all right again.

The only way was if he did something about it. And being a pawn in some grand scheme was not the way to go.

"Sirius meant a lot to you – to us all – and his death surely could have been prevented. And I accept part of the blame. But life goes on. And now, more than ever, we must be concentrating on stopping more needless deaths." A finger under his chin forced him to look into those cryptic blue eyes again, which he met with quiet apathy.

"I understand completely, sir," he said stoically, his voice flat. "Life or death, like the prophecy implied."

"Harry, I don't think you do."

"I believe that I get the gist of what it means. To be the human shield everyone hides behind. To be the sacrifice offered out of desperation and fear to the beast. It's to kill or be killed. Didn't the muggles define that as natural selection?"

He was getting to him all right. The frown deepened and he could feel the worry practically radiating from the headmaster. "You aren't some kind of tool to be used," Dumbledore admonished gently. "You have choices."

"Really? I wasn't aware of that at all. Considering that my life is completely and utterly disposable compared to the rest of the world."

"While it is true that there are some things that cannot be helped, you always have a choice. It's for your safety and well-being alone that we have kept the truth from you and limiting some of your activities," Dumbledore defended. It was a weak argument. Knowing how things were, he was going to have some new rules thrust upon him. For his safety. "While I am concerned about your behavior and your latest actions with your account, you chose to make those changes."

Harry nodded grimly before rising to his feet. "Sure," he replied. "It's for my safety." Turning on his heel, he left the office before the other had the chance to reply, leaving behind a heavily disturbed headmaster…and taking a copy of Time magazine – an unopened one at that – along with him.

* * *

__

_(…printed in the London Times, circulated internationally…)  
_**Don't Tread on Me!  
The Constantly Broken Unalienable Right…to Privacy**

If there was one right that is particularly close to our hearts, it is our belief that we are entitled to privacy. Whether it is from our parents, friends, or government, we defend that tenet with the kind of self-righteousness that one does not usually apply to other parts of life (even to those aspects that would require said quality). Now, it is even more of a concern, considering the vast amount of connections and ties between the individual, their information, and others. It is a constant question on our minds – where are we overstepping the boundaries when it comes to privacy?

There is a constant concern among parental guardians that their child will do something…horrifically wrong, so to speak. Be it drugs, smoking, cheating, sex, or other things. Of course, they have the right to check up on their child. I condone it…to a point. I maybe biased, as I am a teenager myself, but I feel that it is an important subject and one that I am currently tackling with my own caretakers. So, you'll have to excuse the absence of my wit here.

A parent or guardian has the complete and utter responsibility to look after their child. How else is the child going to know what is right and wrong, in the moral and social sense? Guidance is a must. But when a child gets older, there has to be some loosening of the reins. A teenager will want more control over their life – it's an absolute necessity in the end, unless one wants their child to be completely unprepared to survive on their own. Today's society is filled with risks enough and understandably, guardians are worried, as they should be.

I don't feel that the boundaries must be set when it comes to individual privacy, though. I definitely don't appreciate my mail and messages being read and carefully monitored. I'm not exactly grateful that my accounts, ones set up for my own personal use and no one should be messing with, had been altered and changed without my notification. While the prospect of a curfew (at a reasonable time) is rather sensible, I don't see why I have to be limited to a set amount of distance to be in at the same time! I don't like my life being picked apart, each little piece ready to be controlled. I won't take it and I doubt that any of you readers would. I have my own life to life and damn it, I will live it on my terms!

It doesn't stop there, though. Far from it. The issue of privacy is not limited to the petty desires of children and teens. There are much larger cases to put into context.

One of my earliest memories of my childhood had never been forgotten, because the said subject of the recollection kept occurring day after day after day. It was a ceaseless routine that annoyed me ceaselessly. What was it? My aunt, peering through the blinds of the kitchen window, her giraffe-like neck stretched as far out as it could extend, spying on neighbors. I never understood my aunt's fascination with the neighbors next door – they weren't particularly interesting or strange, boring much like the rest of my neighborhood. I won't even speak of the amount of gossip she shared with those nosy old hens at the grocery store. Every night at dinner, I was forced to listen to my aunt rattle off all that she heard that day. This exasperation might be the only thing that my uncle, my cousin, and myself ever had a consensus upon. It always bothered me how she always never cared about who or what she was talking about. But she wanted know. As such…that was her reasoning to do what she did. I guess I should be thankful my…less than auspicious reputation drove away such people. No one wants the "criminal delinquent" to know that they had been talking about him. Gasp! What if he _does _know?! Squeal! What if he comes after us! _Run away!_

…And you wonder why I go by an alias? But fear not!

…Or maybe you should. For this cycle keeps getting larger and larger.

In this age of information and communication, there is rarely ever anything that could not be found or traced anywhere in the world. Of course, the purpose of this was originally to ensure that whatever communiqué got to where it was supposed to and, if this were not the case, be returned to the proper sender. But in turbulent times of innovation and chaos, such things are twisted to fit the needs of others. With the introduction and full-out explosion of the Internet, a new kind of thief and saboteur was invented: the hacker. The hackers of today could get in and out of the most complex and complicated of computer systems, retrieve whatever information they want or plant whatever virus they wanted to unleash, and leave without leaving any trace at all. And if such experts could get into the government's computers, imagine how safe yours must be?

But does anyone have the right to access sensitive information about us through legal processes, even without our consent? Surely, there have been excuses for such actions. "Precautions" have to be taken and that this is making us safer. It's for our own good. Sure, it could be. However, where does it stop? What is the limit?

And does the decision belong to all of us together…or to the individual?

---_Harrison Evans_

* * *

__

"So, he doesn't know?"

"Nope. From what I could tell, at any rate." Harry leaned back in his chair, tapping the feather of his quill against in thought as he spoke. "I don't think I've given him any reason to be suspicious either after that act, either."

The fire was crackling merrily in the Gryffindor Common Room, a majority of the house gathered around it, enjoying themselves by talking with friends, doing homework in groups, or playing games such as Exploding Snap and Gobstones. Only a few were not participating in this innate unity: the one or two outcasts as well as Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. The two were sitting at a table in the corner across from one another, away from the distracting noise, several books open before them and parchment whose words were gleaming with the shine of ink. While Hermione's quill flew across the paper at a rapid speed, his was more leisurely and thoughtful. Though this instance was not very strange or extraordinary in the very least. If it were any other way, **then** it would be.

And Harry severely doubted that Hermione would allow that.

It had been a full day since his talk with Dumbledore. And he was right – he did have new rules to follow. Apparently, Dumbledore wanted to talk to him about them himself, but Harry had left before he had a chance to. So, McGonagall spoke to him about the conditions later that night. An earlier curfew, never to be alone under any circumstances when on the grounds and especially at Hogsmeade, as well as the revelation that his mail was to be checked and read for hidden curses and charms before he got a chance to get them.

Needless to say, he wasn't too happy about it at all. And it must've showed on his face afterward when he swept into the common room, people getting out of his way as he went up to the dormitory. Writing about it certainly helped get it out of his system, but in this case it did not help remedy the situation. The mail would be simple enough. Harry had sent Hedwig out just that morning with a note to Keyes. If all went to plan, his mail (sifted through by a team of goblins hired by Keyes and paid quite well for going through thousands of letters, by subject and importance) would either arrive using the Gringotts Special eagle owls, who would not allow **anyone** other than the recipient to take the delivery, or through Hermione.

The others? He was still thinking about that.

While he was out, Hermione had contacted Jason Connolly and Lisa Turpin. According to her, Connolly had responded with fervor, handing her an essay right there on the spot. He had been planning on sending some of his own work to the papers already for similar reasons to Harry's own. Turpin, however, was much more cautious and skeptical. It took some persuasion on her part to convince her of the authenticity of their offer. Hermione had not revealed to them at the time that he was Harrison Evans, but he soon explained himself in the Room of Requirement after lunch.

As for the Slytherin representative? Malfoy was still the only possible choice from there. And it did not take much to gather from Hermione's closed expression that the only way they would willingly approach Malfoy in friendship would happen over her dead body. Harry redeemed himself – or tried to – by saying it was just a thought. There was nothing wrong with thoughts, right? Of course not. That didn't quell her doubts though. There was no danger in it anyway – he would make no offers to Malfoy unless he had some really spectacular blackmail on his hands.

_  
"Hello, Malfoy."  
__"What is it, Potty? Not satisfied just plaguing my life with just your existence that you need to actually talk to me?"  
__"Yes. Anyway, I have a proposition for you. And you'd be pretty stupid to turn it down."  
__"Really. Well, I'm sorry but I'm not interested in hearing what idiotic harpings that those imbeciles brainwashed you with. Bye."  
__"Pity. Ah well. I guess I'll just have to circulate the picture around then. I tried to spare you the embarrassment, but…"  
__"What are you talking about?!"  
__"This."  
__"…Where'd you get that?"  
__"I don't think that's the most important question you should be asking me right now."  
__"Okay! What do you want from me?!"  
__"Why should I tell you? You already said no. Therefore, I'll just have to make a few copies of this. It shouldn't take too long. Bye, Malfoy."  
__"Wait! Come back here! POTTER!"  
_

Oh, he had an idea on that brewing already. But now was not the time to implement it. For starters, he needed a picture, which required a camera. The only one that was easily accessible belonged to Colin Creevey. Yeah. And getting a camera away from Colin Creevey would need a whole lot of planning.

He'd need to act fast though. Catching Malfoy…in the act, so to speak…should be done quickly.

Invisibility cloaks were blessed things.

Furiously writing on how transfiguration on the human body could be both beneficial and incredibly dangerous, Hermione asked, without missing a beat, "Don't you feel guilty, for acting like that? He's probably more worried about you than he already was."

"He probably is," Harry admitted, grudgingly telling her. He hated the fact that he **did** feel culpable about it all. Even if it was better in the long run for his schemes and despite what happened last year, the pain and torments that he was forced to brave without any guidance whatsoever when he sorely needed it, he still felt awful about it. Which did not sit well with him. "And I will say that I did feel sorry. But I'm not giving up what I started. I'm saying **my** views, not those of the Order of the Phoenix." The tip of his quill broke in mid stroke from the increased pressure that he put on it subconsciously, the ink blotting the last letter he wrote. Harry cursed under his breath, drawing a scolding glare from Hermione, and started to cast an erasing charm to get rid of the mess.

Hermione sighed and grabbed a quill from her bag, handing it to him. "Use mine. There's nothing wrong in feeling guilty about what you had to do."

"It isn't that, per se. It's because he deserves it in all respects."

"If that's what you think, then why **do** you feel guilty?"

"I've yet to figure that out yet," Harry answered, "but I hope to soon enough." He then blinked absently, before turning in his seat to look over the people in the common room. The usual noise that pervaded the common room about this time was not present. It didn't take long to realize why. "By the way, where's Ron?"

Hermione frowned in distaste. "Quidditch practice. His fan club was tailing after him after he made his way onto the field." He smiled slightly. Hermione was much more angrier with Ron than himself. Perhaps it had something to do with the girls that constant followed him around – all giggles and no brain. He had thought that Ron had a crush on their bushy-haired friend, but it seemed that he was wrong about that. Nearly every chance that Ron tried to speak to her, she blew him off. Most of the time, she complained, the only reason they spoke was because Ron needed help with some kind of work – particularly the answers. Out of her typical nature and righteous anger, she declined every single time. At one point, she told him to go ask one of the airheads that worshipped the ground he walked on.

As for himself, Harry limited himself to being cold and distant. Even Ron, though he usually overlooked such trifles, was eventually getting the idea of Harry's indifference. So, the redhead was trying to spend more time with him. Sometimes, it was okay and he felt like welcoming his old friend back. But then something would always come up to stop it – whether in the form of an offhand comment or a group of admirers. But if there was one thing that Harry got out of this situation was that he was getting better at escaping people's notice, to the point that he had made it in late to Snape's class and was not noticed to be late at all. And that he should avoid standing too close to the girl who constantly chewed bubblegum. At one point, when making a bubble, it popped. Covering everyone with it. It was quite unpleasant. And a hassle to get off – his hair was bad enough to deal with on its own, he didn't need the help of sticky chewed strawberry-flavored bubblegum to provide more difficulty.

"Oh, Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

Nothing more needed to be said.

* * *

__

_(…printed in The Daily Prophet, circulated internationally)  
_**A Utterly Pointless and Outdated Argument  
The Bloodline Complex**

No doubt that I'm going to hit a few nerves when I publish this out. Especially when I judge the reactions from my contemporaries Helena Crawford and Joseph West. Though my other friend who forays into the writing field did have an interesting response of his own. It was quite strange. But, as with most things with Harrison Evans, it is to be expected that he act out of the norm. I believe that it has become his trademark.

Should I be talking about this or not? I do think that out of anyone that could write about such a topic, a halfblood such as myself would certainly fit the bill just fine. As the daughter of a well-off wizard and a muggle, my experiences with the wizarding and muggle worlds put them at around an equal scale for me. It is this way that I consider that I'm privileged: I've seen the best and worst of both worlds, something that muggleborns and purebloods really don't have the chance to.

You maybe confused by what I mean by muggleborns not seeing both, considering that they were raised as muggles and educated in wizardry. Indeed, Helena had to be included in this group – she is muggleborn herself after all. However, it is impossible to deny that for muggleborns, there will always be a bias. They were raised in different environments, and then introduced to a new one. It is through this premise, that they will always compare everything they find in the wizarding to the muggle one they were born in. For them, it is hard to imagine living in a household completely devoid of muggle items, at all times for every day of your life, where the magical world is all around you.

Purebloods have a similar handicap when it comes to the muggle world. It is a common trait among purebloods, particularly ones from old and socially conscious families, to be less than gracious towards muggles and, as a result, muggleborns. Growing up in a magical environment, of course they would see the efforts of muggles to compensate for a lack of magic as low and ludicrous. And I doubt you would see many pureblood wizards to intrepidly waltz through a muggle town with ease…or without frustration. The only wizard who comes to mind is Albus Dumbledore, who would probably be traipsing through the streets joyfully, as well as making sure to tiptoe through the tulips.

The amazing fact about that tidbit is that you actually **_can_ **see him doing that.

But if there is one thing that being a Hogwarts student always makes you acutely aware of, the school being under Albus Dumbledore or not, is the intense rivalry between the purebloods and muggleborns. Surely, the first thing that comes to mind is Slytherin house. It isn't a house thing. Not every single muggle-hater is in Slytherin. I know plenty that are in the other houses – even a few in Gryffindor. And I know quite a few nice Slytherins, some are even muggleborn. My friend Joseph West comes to mind, though he is no Slytherin. I can gather that all of you figured that out already – he isn't exactly subtle or cunning.

The question is, what exactly makes the subject so sensitive and instigative? Why do the purebloods (and I use the term generally towards ones that dislike muggles) hate the muggleborns, and vice versa?

It is a good question. And from all that I could gather, I could only trace it to a superiority complex. You heard me. The whole conflict is based on an imbecilic idea that one set group or individual must feel equal if not better than the other, coupled with a wide array of social changes in the last couple of centuries. This is the driving force behind the entire trouble. Muggleborns, who are growing to be an overwhelming majority in the wizarding population, feel that they are just as good and influential as those old families that have produced wizards for a long period of time. Purebloods meanwhile, in the light of this rising social threat, respond by spreading the idea that muggleborns are weaker and have dirty or 'muddy' blood' unsuited for the practice of the magical arts (thus, coining the insulting term 'mudblood').

Genealogy and the accepted theory of evolution speak otherwise. Ironically, these are concepts that are credited solely to muggle scientists, though ones unaware of the wizarding world.

According to Charles Darwin, the strongest will survive and the weaker will perish. If pureblood families had always existed, then essentially there should have been a few primordial ancestors of humanity that possessed the ability to use magic. But if that were the case, how come there aren't more wizards and witches in the world, with few or no muggles? Aren't wizards stronger than muggles? If so, then why are the muggles so widely more populous than us? Is it our magic, some strange twist of nature, or perhaps the muggles' impressive aptitude for adaptation and change? That is another matter entirely, but one that should come under further investigation.

Then there is also genealogy, the study of lineage and ancestry. Certainly, wizards have been following their family lines for a while, but not as long as muggles (particularly muggle nobility) have. Common trends among the major pureblood families' trees, however, show a shared theme. Most of the lines start with ancestors in the late-Roman era and early medieval period. A precious few start before that. However, that is where the line just begins. There are no records of the relatives of these forbearers of the pureblood families, or of any ancestors before that. They just _begin._ Which, logic states, means that these ancestors were muggleborn themselves. Because like muggleborns of today, they just appear on the magical scene with no prior ties.

Though this does prove that any conflict between the two groups is meaningless, I have no doubt that it will continue. Such drastic changes in thought are too massive to suddenly inspire a change in societal mannerisms. Time, as well as acceptance, is the only thing that could. And if you were wondering how Harrison reacted, it's really quite simple.

He laughed. But if it was about the content or the image of Headmaster Dumbledore 'tiptoeing through the tulips', I'm not sure.

_---Elissa Fowler_

* * *

__

The classic tinkle of glasses rapping together broke the somewhat somber mood, as everyone took appreciative sips of the bubbling champagne. Harry himself only allowed himself a small amount – for the rest of the evening he'll stay to water. Alcohol was good in moderation. He had no desire to repeat the last incident either. It was no joke that hangovers were hell on a man and Hermione's silent 'I-told-you-so' was not a welcome addition to that situation.

There's only so much worshipping of the porcelain god that he could be willing to give. Particularly on a school day.

He took his seat and prepared to devour the succulent meal in front of him. It was practically calling out to him. Though it may have to do with the fact that he skipped over dinner at Hogwarts and was absolutely famished. Then making a speech on the general apathy towards the conflicts happening in other nations entirely in French, since they all were in Paris.

All he had to say there was to thank heaven for translating spells.

The speech had been well received, judging from the response from the other guests gathered at this gala party. But just because they said it was a good speech and his views eloquently delivered, did not mean that they agreed or not. More likely there was going to be some negative feedback in the next couple of days. There always were. However, this seemed to be the way things were run in this business. Put a good face while snubbing in written word. Though, from his observations of these spectacles, it fed more from jealousy and conceit rather than a true love of what they were doing. One example could be drawn between Wendell Halliwell and Daphne Reyes from the States. He had seen there work and they were constantly at each other's throats. Yet, not just three minutes before the toast, they left together in the same taxi.

The irony.

That was the general view, at any rate. Of course, there were exceptions, particularly embodied in the form of the Captain and Isolde Vitronka (no, not Tenielle). A jolly Irishman with a heady love of strong spirits and the ocean, the Captain was the life of the party. It was hard to believe that the man had devoted his entire life to trying to end the fighting between the religious factions in the world, journeying far and wide. Isolde Vitronka was more laidback and benign. Considerably, more laid back. Like the Captain, she was a veteran of the field, particularly in the area of the Cold War and its aftereffects in the Eastern European nations.

Seeing as this was the seventh or eighth similar event that he had been to, he was becoming pretty good at making friends, allies, and connections. Which might be very useful in the future. And he would have to agree that the muggle gatherings were a bit more enjoyable than the wizarding ones. There, an atmosphere of quiet tension always pervaded, ruining the entire purpose. Also, the chances of meeting Dumbledore or some other important Order figure (like Moody or Mr. Weasley) were much greater. Though the glasses shielded his identity from people had never met him in person or did not know him very well, it did not protect him from those who did or those who had enough skill to see through the illusions.

And there was only so much of Rita Skeeter, free of her promise to Hermione to keep her quill to herself for a year, that he could take.

"What do you think?" he asked Lisa, who was sitting next to him, all the while watching the happenings around them. The four of them (now, they were collectively seen as a group) had been invited to two events on the same night, so they split up to attend both. Hermione and Jason went to the party in Venice, while he and Lisa handled Paris. "It isn't so bad."

"You're right about that. I should have expected as such, considering how well known you are and still not caught. But there is no downside to being cautious." If there was one thing that he had learned about Lisa in the short time that they had known each other, it was not only that she was shyer than most but also extremely nervous about everything she did. She had explained that it was the result of being in the Ravenclaw house: every little thing was a contest of intelligence and the smallest mistake could make one the so-called embodiment of a dunce. Which explained Luna Lovegood's troubles with her housemates quite adequately.

He had to admit that Lisa was pretty when she tried, which she normally didn't. Her heart-shaped face was framed by her mane of pale blond hair, feathered for the occasion, and not in a tight plait like it usually was day to day. She was pretty tall, her height equal to his own, with a statuesque and pale figure. Her brown eyes were hidden behind a pair of blue and bronze sunglasses, different from his own and the others in its style, but with the same function. It matched her long cobalt blue dress, courtesy of Seine McCallister.

Seine had been all to eager to comply with their requests and needs. She was being paid well for it after all. She had begun selling a few of her creations to mainstream stores and was consequently becoming a famous designer. Unfortunately for the clamoring plethora of vain actors and rich clients, **finding** her was another story entirely. Something the woman with the two different colored eyes enjoyed immensely.

"The only thing that is vaguely disturbing," the quiet Ravenclaw girl added after a pause, "is the fact that many of these people seem to think that either Helena or myself is your girlfriend." There was a short silence as he digested this, before they both broke out into laughter.

"It's all the same wherever I go," Harry joked, shaking his head at the very thought. To think what those reporters came up with about him – even when he was under disguise and using an alias. Was he just some kind of media magnet? And the twist was that he was now part of that media hoard. Will wonders never cease? "Everyone is determined to set me up in some kind of romantic tryst, hoping that it would end up becoming some outrageous scandal. Honestly, can't I have some platonic female friends? Does everyone think that I am merely some kind of hormonal animal?"

"Apparently, you can't. And I was under the impression that all teenage males, in general, were hormonal animals."

"You wound me!" Another bout of laughter followed before a tap on his shoulder interrupted the moment. Still shaking slightly from the dry hilarity that had occurred, Harry looked up to find the editor of the London Times staring back down at him, his face captured between amusement and nervousness. Harry had never understood why the portly editor, George Mansfield, was always so edgy around him. He later heard that Mansfield was going through a divorce and was fighting for custody of his children. It was putting him under a lot of stress.

There was nothing else but to be polite. The Times was where he got his start and the man had always been gracious and agreeable towards him. "Hello, Mr. Mansfield. Enjoying the party? I'm sure you've met my colleague, Miss Fowler." Lisa lifted her glass slightly in greeting while Mansfield gave her a nod of acknowledgment, before turning to him.

"I know you like to keep your identities secret and all," the editor muttered quietly, "but you have a problem. A woman came by at the office, waving around a badge and meaning business. Punched out a security guard and fairly demanded information." Harry raised an eyebrow. A woman looking for him? Most likely another private investigator trying to track him down, he was getting a lot of them lately. Though they all eventually went to the offices, they all found nothing. He had been careful not to leave his real name around. However, none so far had punched out guards.

Interesting.

Mansfield sniffed in distaste, reminding him a bit of Fudge when he was perturbed, but the two were as different as night and day when it came to personality. "Yes. An _American_ woman, strangely enough. She was quite short with the largest – I digress. I shouldn't speak badly of the lady. Not because I'm a gentleman, but because she was certainly no lady." They laughed a bit there, Lisa joining and listening in her usual quiet way. "Her name was Claudia Matchison, a private investigator. She did not get your name, but I was not present at the office that day due to…family matters. I left my second in charge and he was so frightened of the woman that not only did he nearly go in his knickers, but he gave out the name of your neighborhood." Mansfield clucked in sympathy. "He kept the presence of mind to keep your house number and street to himself, at least. But this one's gotten pretty close."

Crap. Harry did not need someone finding his or her way to Privet Drive. He personally would not wish Vernon Dursley on anyone…okay, maybe Malfoy (Senior), Lestrange, Wormtail, or Voldemort…but other than that, nope.

_"Hello, sir. Thank you for inviting me to your home."  
__"Of course, miss. Anything for an officer of the law. How can I help you?"  
__"I was wondering if I could speak to your nephew?"  
__"My nep- I HAVE NO NEPHEW!"  
__"Yes, you do. I checked. I'm sure that he lives here. Now, I would like to speak with him."  
__"YOU'RE ONE OF THOSE FREAKS, AREN'T YOU?! GET OUT! YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED IN MY HOME!"  
__"Did you just call me a freak?!"  
__"WHAT DO YOU THINK, YOU BIG – _(something, for it was here that his imagination failed him) – _FREAKISH HUSSY?!"  
__"That's it!"  
  
_

"I see," he said neutrally, snapping out of his imaginings when he noticed the odd stares he was receiving from Lisa and Mansfield. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it. Thank you for telling me." Mansfield visibly relaxed before moving on to other acquaintances.

"I'm assuming that you've got a scheme on the mind."

He smirked. "I believe this will be somewhat fun." He raised his glass to toast her own. "Cheers."

* * *

__

_(…printed in the Edinburgh Journal, circulated internationally…)  
_**Antagonism, Passion, and Motivation**  
**I'm Not 'Overdramatic', I'm Angry!**

I've been told many times by people that I'm not exactly subtle (this usually comes when subtlety could be appreciated) and that I'm a 'drama queen'.

Yeah. Me, a drama queen. Never mind the fact that…I'm a guy, you idiots! Look at me! Look. At. Me! And if the picture isn't enough to prove it, take a glance at the name! Joseph – decidedly male name. Please take note of that.

My so-called "anger problem' has gotten me into trouble quite a bit of the time. Especially among my friends, though some of the stranger ones to find it more amusing than frightening (i.e. Harrison Evans, who got me into this gig to begin with, manipulative git that he is). It's become something I'm known for – and the reason for my exclusion from most of my peers.

Losers. And I'm not even going to go on about my professors!

Why am I angry? Dissatisfied? It's simple really. I just don't like the way things are in the world. Can you blame me? Have you seen, truly examined and looked into, how everything is run? Into the behaviors that we consider normal, to the events that occur daily across the globe? I do not mean just a cursory glance before yielding to the overwhelming bias that weighs on our minds, but see everything without the rose-colored glasses, without the screen of contentment that blinds us from the actual vision?!

There is crime running through the streets, corruption still exists, and in our so-called free world there is still poverty and servitude. We've become decadent and depraved, concerned only with the material wealth that a person possesses and the image with try to uphold. Our language has become so corroded that even despite the amounts of money we pour into educating children, they can't speak or write correctly. Instead of embracing the different, we either close it out from our minds – dismissing it as mere codswallop – or make it into a fad, which can be just as demeaning.

I want change. A revolution! Not one of wars and bloodletting for such trivial things as land or money or potential threat. I want a real revolution that would transform the mind of the individual, for better or worse! A battle of words and wits, of ideals and intellectual progress! Don't use violence, use argument! Use that anger to make a difference, not conflict! There is no greater emotion than anger – it literally calls for action, an inheritance from our primitive ancestors. Instead of dampening it down, let it out and channel it into something. Let it motivate you into doing something useful, not letting it stew while you lie on your couch or into a psychotic rage. If you want anything to change, then get up and do something about it. The quicker you do it, the faster it will most likely come.

As for me, I'm making a revolution of my own. It's a sad fact of life that you'll have to deal with. Unless, of course, you want to come along for the ride and join on the fun. Then you're quite welcome.

_---Joseph West_

* * *

__

His fingers gently ran over the thick spines of the book, green eyes eagerly searching out the titles for the books he wanted. Occasionally, one was pulled out one, put another back. A thoughtful smile played on Harry's face as he perused the shelves devoted to the wizarding law. Of course, one would wonder why he was in this section to begin with, seeing as Advanced NEWT History was just as boring and sleep-inducing as the first.

However, Harry had his reasons. His next article required some level of research on wizarding law. And where else should he turn to? It wasn't as if the Ministry had a site on the Internet that he could check on the modified laptop, currently hidden beneath his trunk's false bottom.

Wizarding law continued to frustrate him the more and more he became frustrated with the state of things. The entire system was full of loopholes and fallacies that any good defense lawyer could use to get even the most despicable and malicious of individuals acquitted. It certainly explained how so many Death Eaters managed to walk free during and after Voldemort's reign. And there had not been any major reforms in the legal code since the repealing of Crouch's act to give Aurors the right to use Unforgivables. And that was fifteen years ago.

If things gone differently, if the numerous mistakes that both the ministry and the Order had not made, then the war that was building up now would probably have never arisen. Harry would have a somewhat normal life, one where he didn't have to look over his shoulder for those that wanted to take his life, one that didn't care if he was the Boy-Who-Lived or just some smart-alec kid embarking on a journalistic career to let off some steam.

Sadly, it hadn't. And this is what he had to deal with.

"Potter." In the middle of slipping out Wizarding Law: The Rights of the Individual, he turned his head at the sound of his name, surprised that anyone would bother to even come into this section of the library. It was notorious that the law section was the most deserted place in the library. The privacy was one of the reasons why he came here – despite the righteous anger he felt towards the law system in general.

Standing in the same shadowy aisle as he was, Draco Malfoy gave him a cold and icy glare. Harry's green eyes narrowed behind his glasses before he returned to looking through the shelves, adding The Rights of the Individual and book of Jacques Rousseau to the collection under his arm. Whatever Malfoy wanted, Harry wasn't going to let him feel like he was actually interested in what he had to say. If there were two weaknesses that Malfoy constantly left undefended, it was his pride and egotism.

"I'm talking to you, Potter," the other fairly ground out.

Harry shrugged easily, "I'm very well aware of that. But you haven't said anything other than my name." He calmly approached the blonde boy (he was slightly perturbed to find that Malfoy was **still** taller than he was) and inched out of the aisle to the main part of the library, where the tables were. There were not that many people there at this time, but he was not going to remain alone in a dark aisle with a person who had already threatened his life. Because, frankly, it was just smart.

Setting the small pile of books on the table, making sure that Madame Pince and several other students were in sight, he sat down and began flipping thorough the first text. Not too long after, Malfoy reemerged. Hiding his expression behind the pages of the book, he smiled in amusement. Apparently, the younger Malfoy still had not mastered the benefits of keeping his emotions off his sleeve.

Scowling magnificently (though still, not up to Snape-caliber, but there was rarely anything that was up to that to begin with), Malfoy stalked over to him, taking the seat across from him. To his credit, the blonde Slytherin brought one of the books from the law section with him to make it seem like he **was** actually doing something. Other than trying to get under Harry's nerves. "What are you planning, Potter?" he muttered, a book on criminal lawyers open in front of him, quietly enough so that no one other than Harry heard.

Reading nonchalantly, he answered, "Wouldn't you like to know?" That should irritate the other a lot. Sure enough, Malfoy's sour look deepened, his fingers clenching the sides of the book. This was a bit too easy for his tastes. But he wasn't the who instigated the meeting in the first place.

"I would," was the answer.

"That's nice." Then…silence. Which was not well received.

"STOP PLAYING GAMES, POTTER!" Malfoy burst out angrily, slamming his hands against the grain of the wood and rising to his feet. Immediately, everyone in the library turned to look at them. Harry raised a skeptical eyebrow at the slight coloration on Malfoy's cheeks before he ran out, denying Madame Pince the joy of ordering students out. He blinked in surprise at the hurried exit, wondering what brought **that** on.

Nothing came to mind, really. And it was strange. There was some old saying that a person always knew best the people they loved and the people they despised. Harry would have to admit that Malfoy's behavior was strange. Usually, the blonde would just mock and threaten him. Not go up, deliberately, to meet him and…ask. It was that last part that really got him. Where on earth did he learn how to ask, not whine or demand?

_  
"Okay, Mr. Malfoy. I know that you've done well on the OWLS and all…"  
__"I know. You've been my tutor for years now. It's what we pay you for to begin with."  
__"Right. But I must insist you learn this lesson. I had thought that your parents or perhaps contact with your peers at Hogwarts would have taught you this, but apparently this is not the case. And this skill that I'm about to teach you is **essential** to your future. Are you prepared to learn it, young Master Malfoy?"  
__"Yes, yes, get on with it. I'll probably master it in seconds, anyway."  
__"I would like you to ask me for this pen."  
__"…That's it?"  
__"Correct. Ask me for this quill?"  
__"Alright. Give me the quill."  
__"No, incorrect."  
__"What?!"  
__"I told you that you had to ask me for the quill."  
__"And that's exactly what I did. Give me the quill."  
__"No. You're **demanding** it, not asking."  
__"There's a difference?"  
__"Yes. Now ask."  
__"Why should I? I'm a Malfoy and remember who's paying you, here!"  
__"Ask me for the quill."  
__"…Fine. Can I **please** have the quill?"  
__"Yes, good boy."  
_

The voice of Jason Connolly broke his train of thought, noting the perpetual undertone of suspicion and anger. Jason despised Malfoy even more than Hermione and he did – due to some strange pureblood rivalry between the families. The short Hufflepuff boy with the longish mousy brown hair glared at the exit of the library as if Malfoy himself were standing there. In the light of the setting sun illuminating the library, the gold colored lenses from his sunglasses glinted. "What did **he** want?"

Harry shrugged in response. "He thought I was up to something and asked, then demanded, what I was doing." He grinned at the somewhat astonished expression gracing Jason's face. "Yes, he **asked**."

"How in the good name of Merlin did a **Malfoy** learn how **ask** for something?!" the other boy spluttered. "It's unheard of! Incredible! That spoiled narcissistic git learning to be civil! Unbelievable! Should we commemorate this day?"

He nodded solemnly. "Yes, we should. For I have never known him to ever ask for anything…other than I drop dead in the literal sense just two weeks ago."

"True," Jason conceded, then throwing Harry a sly look. "You know, people could have taken that the wrong way." Harry blinked owlishly in confusion, not getting what his friend was implying. What on earth was Jason getting at? "You know, what I mean," Jason elaborated, gesturing dismissively at exit. "I mean, Malfoy follows you into a section of the library where _no one_ goes into. He follows you out and out of all the places to sit, takes the chair right in front of you. Then he gets up and tells you to stop playing games. After that outburst, he blushes – as much as that pale imbecile could blush, at any rate – and fairly runs out of here."

"Still not getting it, Jason," Harry replied sullenly.

"Do you think Malfoy's interested in you? I mean, not in the usual 'I'm-your-enemy-and-I'm-going-to-kill-you interest, but in…another way."

It was at that point he got it and fairly shouted out, **_"What?!"_**

**_

* * *

_**

__

_(…printed in The Daily Prophet, circulated internationally…)  
_**The English Ministry: The Lonely Light in the Dark?**  
**Pride Goeth Before a Fall**

You don't have to go very far to hear about the news on the war against the Dark Lord Voldemort (I refuse to be censored). It's everywhere and understandably, one of the worries on the forefront of our minds. One cannot deny the rising terror, cold like the briefest touch of a evil specter, that runs through us every time we hear of the disappearances, the raids, the horrors and torture survivors had been forced to endure, the battles between the forces determined to protect us and the armies of one who wants nothing more than to control us.

What has always preyed on my mind was this: how come the rest of the magical community, outside our borders, has not been contributing to the fight? Voldemort is a threat to everyone, no matter who they are or where they are from. And it is no secret that the Death Eaters have been moving faster and faster, despite Auror attempts to keep the conflicts within our own borders. Just two days ago, five muggle villages in the Netherlands and three ports in France have been attacked and their populations massacred. These assaults have been growing more and more in number.

It is clear that this has become more than just a conflict within Britain, but now one of international proportions.

Yet, even so, there has been no move on the part of our ministry to join forces with other governments, who have also been under attack. Of course, the statements provided by the French and Dutch ministries have possessed numerous calls for unity and cooperation to deal with threat. However, the British Ministry has made no moves forward to make ties. If one were to read the response to these attacks, one could definitely find a note of contempt and antipathy, most of the comments for unity seeming rather two-faced and evasive.

It's obvious that our government isn't interested in cooperating at all, but would rather just deal with a gigantic problem as this on our own, no matter what other nations would have to say. Our diplomatic record speaks volumes. The friendliest relations that our ministry has had with other ministries occurred during the times that Bartemius Crouch and Paul Peter Saunders served as heads of the Department of Magical Cooperation. And even under Crouch, relations were somewhat strained – and Saunders served over two hundred years ago.

And back then? To put it mildly, the British and the French weren't the best of friends during that period of time. And the American Revolution at the time didn't help matters much either.

Why do we continue to experience such bad luck with our forays into diplomacy and world collaboration? Judging from past experiences, it seems to come from not only a complex network of alliances and old worn-out grudges, but also because in most cases we tend to elevate ourselves above the statuses of other nations, thinking ourselves better than them. While it is true that Britain is influential and a world leader, this does not mean we should treat other countries as if they were not just as essential to the world community.

We don't own the world. We shouldn't be afraid to ask for assistance if it would benefit the general people as a whole, just because of some supposed image and reputation to be upheld. Which is the exact purpose government was meant to fulfill.

Will the bureaucratic rivalries of a few men turn out to be our greatest disadvantage in a time where we are facing a true crisis? Who can say? One would hope that it wouldn't be.

_---Helena Crawford_

* * *

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The teacher's lounge was not silenced as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, regarded as the greatest wizard of the age, Albus Dumbledore walked in. In a sense, this was not a good thing. He really had something important to discuss, which was why he called it in the first place, something that went far beyond the importance of using muggle candy brands as the passwords to go to his office. What caused this distraction of attention was not in anyway new. At times, the arguments between the venerable Minerva McGonagall and enormously critical Severus Snape could get a bit out of hand – especially when concerning the sensitive subject of one Harry Potter. These…"debates"...had been going on a regular basis for so long over the past five years that the incredulity had since long worn off. As for the novelty, that remained the same.

Dumbledore in particular disliked the squabbles. In a way, he did. Surely, he did not want to have his staff fighting amongst each other. But at times it was just funny. In this instance, he was mildly curious as to their quarrel this time, which the rest of the staff were observing with interest.

Apparently, this was over who had the better student within their house: Harry Potter for Gryffindor or Harrison Evans for Slytherin. Of course, it had not been confirmed that Evans was a Slytherin or not, but it certainly seemed like it, and the rest of the staff had accepted that for now. Snape especially, though maybe this also had to do with the fact that the man apparently liked the young writer – whoever he was – and his views along with his character. There was also the additional fact that if the mysterious boy was actually Slytherin, then he may prove to be an example that not all of the Slytherins had to bow down to the prejudice that their house seemed to flaunt in a twisted pride. Indeed, the usually stoic man admitted that if he ever managed to unveil Evans' true identity among his Slytherins, then he'd award the boy with 250 points for what he was doing – in an apparently cunning and ingenious fashion.

What were his views on Harrison Evans himself? Mixed. The young man, whoever he was, was certainly to be applauded for his clever writing and wit, along with the idea of using the media as the perfect soapbox to proclaim his views to a world that though conflicted, embraced his originality and uniqueness. But there were times that he could sense, underneath the droll words and intellectual philosophy, that there was a boy that was crying out for help in his own way.

It made sense to him, he who had dealt with children and the mind for a long as he had. Evans had a fierce streak of independence and a strange confidence, along with style and a charming nature. Why hide it behind an alias? Why hide so adeptly, that he could not be picked easily out of the students? They had been scouring the work of the students desperately, but still no luck. Even Legilimency did not help. Evans also mentioned a bad relationship with his relatives and a horrible reputation – as well as growing up muggle, if his references as well as submissions to muggle newspapers were anything to go by. His caretakers were described as quite strict and limiting of his freedom as well. Also, he demanded a voice to be heard – as if he had been stifled for a long time, his opinion never heard.

The parallel he could make ideally to any student in his lifetime would fit Tom Riddle and Harry Potter, two students so alike in mind and circumstance, both of whom he had on some level failed. However, Tom was too far gone now. And Harry…it was a possibility. If it weren't for the distinctly cunning undertone, he would have immediately pinpointed Harry for this. But in his experience, Harry had never displayed such a quality – at least not openly. And there was also the fact that Harry still appeared to be recovering from his loss. Both Evans and Harry had some apathy towards the world, but in Harry it was far more defined and focused. Also, there was the fact that Evans had been seen at several gala events outside Hogwarts. While this did bring up the question as to how students could sneak out and make a trip to London and back, according to young Ronald Weasley, Harry had never left the dormitory that night.

He would not discount Harry yet. It was too early to do so. If they erred, they would err on the side of caution.

Eventually, the occupants of the room realized that the Headmaster had been there – for a while, sitting in an armchair that he had claimed by the fire. Most seemed embarrassed by this, their faces betraying them, but they settled down and waited to hear what he had to say. Clearing his throat slightly and adjusting his half-moon spectacles, he held a piece of parchment in his hands. "I received this from Xander O'Callighan from the Department of Public Relations in the Ministry. You'll probably guess as to why I have called this meeting after you hear this." With this preamble, he proceeded to read the longish document, his voice grave and serious.

**  
Headmaster Albus Dumbledore:**

**I understand that your responsibilities as of late have been increasingly burdensome. Not only must you care for the well-being and education of the latest generation of wizards and witches, you must also tackle on the threat and terror of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to defend us from the relentless darkness. Truly, you are a man of great strength of mind and body to take on such tasks of infinitesimal proportions. You have, as you always had, my eternal and deepest respect.**

**However, I must humbly but most urgently proceed to the subject of this correspondence. I am afraid that I cannot evade this any longer; its importance is so great. I speak of the seemingly third party in this fight against the dark. I am, of course, referring to those four clever manipulators: Helena Crawford, Joseph West, Elissa Fowler, and above all, Harrison Evans.**

**You are as acutely aware as I am of the impact of these four individuals. It is incredible and almost supernatural at the amount of success they have managed to win in such a small amount of time. Particularly in a field where veteran writers have yet to amass recognition, much less this kind of fame. It is under my personal belief that this is a result of their forthright attitude and clear eloquence that they state their opinions, which are quickly influencing the public so manically. They are different, unique, as well as young and well spoken. They are not afraid of negative feedback at all! Considering their natures, from what I can glean from their words, they probably find it all amusing.**

**No doubt they are charming, intelligent, and interesting young men and women and I would love to see them continue on and succeed. Merlin knows we need that kind of charisma and intelligence to lead the next generation.**

**But I must raise concerns. It is true that as of yet, they seem to be decidedly neutral on the issue of which sides they are on. Some of their statements support the dark and others the light, equally, in fashions that evenly praises and mocks both of them. While this seems to be quelling any new recruits to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's forces, the same applies to our side as well. Indeed, there have been several hot protestations towards the ministry's handling of the situation. There have even been calls for the Minister's resignation! The sheer madness of it all, when our respected minister, Cornelius R. Fudge, is the only man at the moment that has the leadership to move our country out of this chaos. With your help and advice, assuredly.**

**I implore you to please find these four. They have admitted already that they attend your school, though they go by aliases. If you cannot have them completely devote themselves to our cause, at least have them stop writing. We need all the support we can amass at the moment. Evans, Crawford, West, and Fowler can be the figureheads of the anti-Dark movement, drawing in and uniting the population against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! Their influence and appeal, applied to our side, could turn the tide easily over to us! But their articles are too neutral to provide this sort of base at the moment. We need them. If not on our side, then no one else's. And if you do not comply, we may need to investigate the students themselves to find them. I do not want to intrude upon your territory, but these children must be found and quickly at that!**

**Please, I humbly ask you to fulfill this request. Both the interests of the war and as old friends.**

**Most sincerely, your old friend,**

_Xander O'Callighan_

**Xander O'Callighan  
****Deputy Head  
****Department of Public Relations, The English Ministry of Magic  
**

The room remained deathly quiet when he finished, the crackling sound of the fire the only noise in the room. Dumbledore was pleased that he could somewhat predict the reactions of his staff rather well. At least he could trust himself on that. Minerva was visibly ruffled – her eyes hard and lips pressed hard into a flat line. Sprout and Flitwick were understandably nervous, the tiny man biting his lip as perspiration beaded upon his brow, the Herbology teacher clasping her hands in her lap tightly. Severus, though as much as he tried to hide it, also showed some emotion towards this: a folding of his arms across his chest, a dark look of haughtiness and cold scorn burning brightly in his black eyes, though his face had shown no outward response. Many of the others responded in similar fashions.

To be put mildly: they were not happy. And neither was he.

"I suppose you see what we must do," he spoke solemnly into the silence. "We have to find these four students. And we must find them quickly, before the Ministry has a chance to become involved."

There were several gasps of disbelief, to which a small smile did form upon his lips briefly. Of course they would be surprised. Here he was cooperating with the Ministry in an plain attempt to use these four children as tools for propaganda, who at the end of the war would be thrown aside. Not only that, but by putting them out in the front of the media spotlight in such a fashion, they would be risking their lives and most likely become the focus of Voldemort's ire. Undoubtedly, he had no idea how well they could duel or survive against Death Eaters and the wrath of the Dark Lord. But after last year, he did not want to have any unnecessary casualties.

"I do hope you aren't serious, Albus," Minerva said tightly. It was the same tone that she used often when he was making decisions about Harry Potter. The irony, considering the argument that had taken place prior. "You aren't going to hand them over to the ministry?! Though they are certainly quite smart and intelligent, they are still just _children_. If you do what the ministry wants-"

Dumbledore cut her off with a raised and wizened hand. "I am well aware of the risks that we would be exposing them to if we give them over. That is not my intention. I plan to keep them _away_ from the ministry. While it would definitely be an advantage to have them blatantly support us, the best move we can make is to find them and protect them from Fudge's manipulations."

Severus' gaze grew grim, remaining quiet while the other professors conversed among themselves. The implication was easily understood despite the lack of words: Severus thought that he would attempt to win them over by acting as their protectors and having contact with them. If such a result occurred, Dumbledore wouldn't be upset by it. However, it would not be his aim to do so.

He had already driven Harry away, much like he failed Tom all those years ago. It was clear that he could not keep repeating his actions as he had. For they all seemed to lead to more pain and a sacrifice of innocence and faith.

He would have to redeem himself. Not only to protect these four and help their apparently troubled ringleader, Harrison Evans. But also to regain the trust of the boy who had looked to him for help and found nothing.

Like he had a hundred times since that fateful resolution in his office the previous term, he swore that it would not happen again.

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25 pages of Celestial Requiem goodness. Next chapter, Harry meets with Claude Matchison from Case #546. As for the thing with Malfoy, Jason was just teasing Harry. Malfoy was just embarrassed at losing his cool. That's what we can guess at anyway.

Hope you liked the chapter! Next update should be Elemental Prophecies. But first, I have to do the American History report due tomorrow.

Wish me luck!

---Raven Dragonclaw


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